The Lost Kings of Troy
by Nola Swan
Summary: 18 years after the Trojan War, Aeneas and his children have begun anew. In a land where gold is power, allies are scarce, and war is a constant danger, they stumble upon a secret that threatens to destroy their home -yet again.
1. Feet Grounded & Heads High

Chapter 1  
"Feet Grounded & Heads High"

**Alba Longa, Latium  
****18 years after the Trojan War**

Noon ushered a renewed wave of heat to settle across the barren field, and sweat pooled beneath his chest plate, seeping through his shirt and causing the leather guarding his shoulder to stick to his damp skin. The horse pawed impatiently at the dry grass, tossing its mane, nostrils shuddering, and he ran his hand along his steed's black neck, felt the dewy sweat gum against his palm, and patted the animal. Its onyx coat shivered, and it neighed while pacing slightly.

"Easy," Haemon murmured as he legs flexed around the animal's hefty chest, and his hands tugged on the reigns to regain control. The horse stilled, bowing its head and snuffing agitated at the dirt, but the mounting pressure between the two armies lined up and matched to face the other was unavoidable. At their crux the enraged Umbrian leader Scipio gestured wildly, cursing every Alban man who stood in opposition of his people, and with each sweep of his accusing hand, Ascanius intervened, ebbed his horse closer, and yelled to be heard over the leader's tone. The Umbrian did not possess the patience or political agility to part in peace, but battles in these lands were rarely guided by logic or reason.

The leader was the first to turn away, a blatant insult for Ascanius who now rode against the glare of sun toward his people and slowed to speak with his brothers.

"He claims he does not know who ordered the attack, and yet he demands reparations-"

"For fields we have not plundered," Haemon interrupted brusquely.

Ascanius' steed paced before them, its rider's blue eyes tense and unnerved by a bloody end for a petty quarrel.

"This was never about the fields," Nereus spoke. "His army can't defeat the Etruscans, and so he turns to us in search of glory to bolster his name."

"This day he will meet defeat." Haemon's dark eyes flashed beneath his knotted brow, and his steed grew more restless as if sensing its master's rising fury. His gaze searched his brothers' faces for the resolve mirrored in his own, and he dismissed them, ordering, "To your lines." No sooner had they dispersed was his sword drawn and raised overhead, the bronze glinting dully above him, an aged beacon of his family and his people.

"Albans!" his singular voice thundered across the field as a cue for each man who drew his sword. Some shouldered flimsy wooden shields for protection while others, poorer and more brazen, had only an axe. "We fight for our lands!" Haemon's eyes voracious and pulsating searched the grounds between them, and he sucked in the dry breath to command, "Let these bastards die for theirs!"

The soldiers roared to life behind him, and his heels wrenched into the horse's ribs releasing the tension like a bow's sinew. They careened forward reckless and powerful as a bull charging. Footfalls tumbled after them racing to keep pace with their leader, but he would not be slowed. Scipio yelled for his men to keep line, to advance, but their strategy waned in the face of one audacious enemy. The men fell to their knees, bending when the black stallion jumped above their heads and landed its rider within the throes of his adversaries who were lethargic to react. The bronze bladed across one man's chest, once more to sever another's head, but his steed was distressed, too young and unfamiliar with battle to stand its ground. Its hooves pounded against the grass, pacing, swaying, pitching to avoid the spears and swords brandished around them, and all at once the ranks contracted as the Albans collided into the Umbrians, spurring Haemon deeper into the latter's rows. His horse circled, ignorant to its rider's commands, black eyes wide to reveal the white circling them. Its lips drew back as it nipped at the bit, and Haemon pulled forcefully, growling through his clenched jaw, blade swinging overhead even as the forces corralled him. Spears brandished into the air soon to be followed by swords if they closed any further. He knocked away their weapons, turning, helmet-less, and barren features open with the challenge. One soldier rose to answer and stabbed eagerly with his weapon only to face Haemon's blade. He tugged again on the reigns and struggled to keep the steed steady, but the tension was too great. The black horse rose to its hind legs, kicking blindly at the soldiers charging them but backing more into their lines. Haemon drove in his heels, trying to guide them forward, but the steed bucked to its full height neighing and shuddering even as its rider threw his weight forward and strove for control.

The foreigners stormed them, the horse balanced unsteadily and jerked at the sight of weapons flashing in the sun, and time slowed around him as he fell, landing heavily on the ground, narrowly rolling to avoid his horse's collapse a moment later. The fall sent the blood diving to his head in a sudden rush until he could hear nothing over the shrill ringing in his ears, and the air fled from his lungs, his chest aching with the effort to gulp it back down. His body felt leaden by gravity's grip, and he stumbled to his feet disarmed but no less lethal. He tore the shield from his back, swinging and breaking one soldier's jaw who dared step too close. As the Umbrian fell with face bloodied, Haemon stole his sword and deflected the blade swooping for his chest. He sensed the attack behind him but fought off the soldier facing him, knocking his weapon from his hands, before Haemon twisted and threw his blade. The sword pierced the man's chest with such force his legs were swept out from under him, and he landed thrashing in the dirt. As Haemon turned once more, he swung his shield, knocking the man off balance and ready to guard against the dagger he drew from his waist. The Umbrian raised it overhead, but his attack was stifled by the arrow buried into his chest. Another ornamented him barely an inch apart, and the blade fell from his limp hand like his lifeless body collapsing into the dirt.

Nereus tossed his axe to his brother and notched another arrow, executing every soldier who charged him with the same merciless accuracy until his quiver was emptied, and he drew his blade. The hefty bronze was not his weapon of choice, but his strategy was brutal, each move calculated and planned, so that the soldiers who met him were incapacitated by his wit more than his strength. But even he could not anticipate all. The Umbrian struck unexpectedly, catching Nereus beneath his arm, and sliced open his chest, and the Prince stumbled back as the pain bladed through him like fire burning up his blood. The weight of his blade was magnified tenfold, and he struggled to raise it and meet the next blow. The sword fell from the Umbrian's hand when he clutched at his gushing throat and fell to his knees, revealing Ariston behind him. His young face was stained with blood and dirt making his blue eyes seem the more savage as they gazed at his older brother and noted the blood seeping from his side.

"It's barely a flesh wound," Nereus lied as he cupped the lesion and applied pressure, but he would not release his blade.

All at once, Ascanius charged past them with such speed the wind chased after him, and the brothers followed his exit to see the Umbrians sprinting toward the hills, their fearless leader an insignificant outline in the front of their lines. At the edge of the field, Ascanius ceased his pursuit, aggravated to have been distracted with battle and not realized the men sneaking away.

"Let him run," Haemon decided and swept the blood and sweat from his brow.

Ascanius glanced at his eldest brother looking fatigued and aggravated at once despite their victory. "We could send a division of men after him."

"He'll need time to lick his wounds before he tries again," he said and turned away from the Umbrians' retreat to the battlefield they abandoned, now scattered with corpses both Umbrian and Alban. "We'll return to the city and take our carts. We should gather our dead before the crows do."

‡‡‡

Sweat mingled in the slender lines on her forehead, still thin whisps that would deepen with age, but the dirt accented them making her seem more exhausted and haggard in the golden afternoon. The folded cloth in her arms threatened to overflow at any moment, and the pitcher dug against the bone of her hip, hitting again and again with every rocking of the water inside. It was difficult to manage both tasks simultaneously, but she couldn't spare the time to carry the fresh linens and then run across the square to draw water from the well. Sweat trickled down her spine and her arms, making the clay slip in her grasp, and she paused with a heavy exhale to readjust her grip before she lost her handle completely. The breeze tangled pieces of hair in her lashes, and she grumbled, bending her head and roughly tugging the strands free. As her neck straightened once more and her eyes flicked open, they met dark charcoal, and as quickly they considered her dirty toes sticking out from her sandals. Needing no further prodding, her heart was electrified and awoke with a sudden clamor, beating so wildly, so quickly that she felt a wave of dizziness seize her. Her mouth went dry, and she began her stride once more, too conscious of the slight limp from the weight of the pitcher and the awkward angle of her arm to hold the towels. Nothing elegant, feminine, or beautiful about her to draw his attention, and yet she still felt his eyes following her nervous shuffle toward her brother's home.

Lifting her chin, her chestnut eyes focused on the home ahead of her, but she could see him from the edge of her gaze: tall, slender, short black hair, and handsome features distorted by the mask of ashes smeared across them. The iron glowed in his hand, waiting for its next victim, ready to seal the wounds too heavy to afford the patience of stitches. A blacksmith mostly and a healer only when he was needed. Her features tensed with the effort to maintain her poise and her balance, but her eyes were too curious and eager for another glimpse as they darted toward him, sizzling to catch his own in their depths. His head snapped toward the soldier being brought to him and purposefully away from her, and she too turned from him, enlivened, uncertain, and defeated by such a simple exchange.

Little over a year ago Damian had been accepted into their ranks. They were long in need of a blacksmith after Pallas' death, and they were eager to welcome him so that he might mend weapons and armor and forge still more. In a year he and Iliana had spoken precisely ten words to one another, and eight of those had been from her shaking lips. Two curt responses diminished the dreams she held of his approaching her, speaking to her, courting her, but forever his gaze followed her path through the square as she went about her duties. He was at once burning and cool, taunting her with his attention and then looking away, making her feel wanted in one moment and like a leper the next. Was he reticent? Did he despise her? Did he find their torrid game amusing?

Shoulders heavy, brow limp with fatigue, and body numb, she escaped the tension knotting between them and hurried into the home where she could hear Nereus' voice echoing through the walls.

"What was that?! Charging blindly into their lines! I expect that from Ariston, but you!" Nereus' siege was interrupted as Sera drew his shirt away from the wound, and his loose jaw was forced closed by the flash of pain.

Haemon barely lifted a brow from his place at the doorway where he watched Nereus' pregnant wife fret over her husband's wounds, and Iliana brushed past him to deposit the pitcher and extra cloth.

"Give us a moment," the man grunted through his clenched teeth, face contorted with anger and pain.

"And let you bleed out so that you can feud with your brother?" Sera returned undeterred and wrung out a fresh cloth to clean his wound. The moment the material touched his injury, Nereus hissed between his lips, and his wife gave him a potent look, irreproachably feminine and annoyed. His blue eyes flickered with surrender, and his head lolled to one side as he lifted his arm and sealed his lips to allow Sera to finish her work. The strategist of Hector's children, Nereus knew when to charge and when to retreat.

"Listen to your wife, brother," Haemon said from the door and flashed a lupine grin, amused to see his brother subdued by a woman. "We'll speak after you've rested." Nereus' gaze narrowed, and with his wife distracted, he didn't spare Haemon a vulgar gesture to send him on his way. The older man chuckled and turned from his brother's room, and he headed toward his own home while checking beneath the bandage on his arm to the see the wound finally clotting, relieved it wouldn't require sutures.

"Haemon!" Iliana called out and rushed after him. Her dress and arms were dirtied with men's blood from treating various soldiers, but her face remained bright with youthful hope, capable of bursting into a smile when others were burdened by sorrow and fatigue. "I've been searching everywhere for you."

"As has everyone since we've returned," he acknowledged, mere paces from returning home but still hours away from escaping his duty this day.

"Are you hurt?" Her eyes probed him for any visible signs, trying to decipher which blood was his own and which Umbrian.

She couldn't see the aching of his back, bruises riddling him, minute scratches and lesions, and most sore, the burden of responsibility on his broad shoulders… "Nothing that needs attention."

"Good." When her eyes focused on her brother's, she nodded curtly and explained, "Solon has returned from Apulia and is speaking with Father… I thought you would like to know."

"What have you heard?" Haemon pressed without hesitation, and Iliana smiled gently.

"Nothing. You and your soldiers returned shortly after him. I had no time to be your spy, brother." His face was loaded with unspoken words among siblings, and her timid smile grew to a grin. "If you're so curious, why don't you ask Father yourself?"

"I can't interrupt these negotiations," he muttered, distracted and provoked.

"But you want to," she taunted and laughed lightly, but her older brother's pensive mask was not so easily broken. "Go home and wash off the dirt," she continued, not sparing an elbow in her brother's rib as she passed him. "You smell worse than the swine!"

Her amusement waned as she exited the home and was once more faced with the soldiers bloodied and in need of care. Haemon followed but a moment later, paused in the doorway, and surveyed the small square where soldiers sat exchanging names of the fallen and women rushed about them to address their wounds. Each pair of eyes bold enough to look upon their commander was rewarded a sliver of Haemon's attention, but the look was rarely sustained for it was not difficult to acknowledge a man as exhausted and agitated as themselves. His attention was drawn to the largest home where their father now received the news that could save their city from yet another war.

‡‡‡

"We have received word from Apulia," Solon announced from the threshold of Aeneas' meeting room. At the center, a large table was strewn with an askew map, weighted to the table by candlesticks and a chalice. The forgotten Dardanian Prince, once handsome trickster sent from the loins of Aphrodite, and leader of the Albans sat at the head having sunk deep into his seat from the hours spent pooling over the map's contents.

His blue eyes flickered to life and swept from the yellowed parchment to the old man calling to him. His fist fell from before his mouth, allowing him to inquire, "How fares King Savas?"

Solon folded his hands in a manner that forebode ill news. "He has denied our offer and countered with a new proposal."

A muscle tensed in Aeneas' jaw, invisible beneath his thick beard, but he feigned composure while asking, "On what grounds?"

"He feels a trade negotiation too loose a contract among two countries with as… _trying_ a history as Latium and Apulia."

"He doubts my motives," Aeneas decoded bluntly.

A better ambassador and steward of his words, Solon explained, "Understandably we were the ones who approached him… He feels he holds sway over the negotiations."

"A trade agreement implies an equal exchange of resources." Aeneas lifted his brow, wrought with aggravation and impatience. "Does he prefer gold?"

"No, My Lord. It would seem he wants for a more lasting arrangement."

"What has he suggested?"

Solon paused, the only visible crack in his calm demeanor, and perhaps he took the time to gather his wits before he answered, "Marriage and all the advantages it implies."

He slumped once more into his seat almost laughing with shock at such a preposterous outcome. "I regret to inform the King I have but one daughter, and I'm not looking for a suitor."

"He did not mean Iliana."

Aeneas speared the ambassador with his cool eyes annoyed to be baited but willing to bite once more. "Has the King a daughter I've not heard of?"

"Not quite."

His chair screeched to life when he thrust to his feet. His body was rigid and stiff with age, but anger gave him the power to direct those heavy limbs. "My sons deserve better than a counselor's daughter. The King wastes my time and insults my family." Aeneas turned to approach his quarters needing a chalice of wine and a meeting with his sons to discuss how they would face winter in light of negotiations failing with Savas.

"Aurora, daughter of Lycaon, son of Gallad, legitimate heir of Apulia."

The title was a whip to his tired body, and he spun to face the ambassador, growling, "And he thinks me stupid… Lycaon and his family were murdered when I first arrived on these shores. As I recall, Savas blamed our men, then Samnium's, and most recently the Tribes of Osci."

"Yes, My Lord," Solon maintained as tempered as his master was enraged, "but it would seem Lycaon's daughter survived."

"He promises a pureblood princess –one who has more claim to the throne than himself."

"She is a powerful asset," he agreed.

"Yet he wishes to be rid of her. Why?"

"He needs gold. His people are starving. Few will survive winter."

Aeneas shook his head, rubbing his callused palm across his face, and concluded, "This is senseless."

"Desperate men with make rash decisions."

"He may be desperate, but he is not stupid. If she were truly Lycaon's heir, he would marry her to one of his sons and legitimize his line rather offering her to his enemies."

"Forgive me, My Lord, but I think his greater mistake would not be to offer a marriage between this woman and your son but to betray you. He wouldn't dare."

"He's arrogant," Aeneas settled flatly, though his interest was caught. "How old is she now?"

Again, Solon paused, making Aeneas even more wary. "Twenty-six."

"And she is unwed? Women are unmarried at that age when they are insane, or worse, barren."

"She's an orphan," the ambassador corrected. "She's had none to vouch for her name or arrange a match."

"Savas acts as her guardian."

"It would seem he was more concerned with his own children before that of Lycaon's."

Aeneas' gaze was distracted, but his posture remained caught between. Solon had a final trick, the most compelling he saved for last.

"Long have we fought for our home, but at every turn, we have faced attack, dishonor, and harsh words. We will forever be treated as unwanted neighbors, but if this is the lost heir of Lycaon, think of the jewel Savas has brashly dealt us! We would have the heir to one of the greatest leaders of the western shores in our grasp. Kings would be forced to recognize our lands and our legitimacy. Latium would finally be safe!" Aeneas' features were weathered with responsibility, and Solon uttered the final words to seal his decision, "Your children could die of old age –not war."

Silence trickled into the room, ripe with the Alban King's thoughts, and at length, he wondered, "You truly believe she is Lycaon's heir?"

Solon fought away a victorious smile. "I believe _they_ believe she is Lycaon's heir. That is as powerful."

All at once, Aeneas gathered his full height and with it the unyielding tone of a ruler, "Call Haemon and Ascanius. Let them ride to Apulia and decide if this woman is an imposter or a gift."

‡‡‡

**Barion, Capital of Apulia  
****One Month Later**

"Three lambs, sir?"

"The King has a particular taste for lamb!"

"But you've not paid me for the chickens I gave a fortnight ago-"

The steward halted amidst the chaos unfolding within the royal kitchen. The sweat beading across his wrinkled brow and the stiffness of his right knee couldn't diminish the pride and purpose bolstering his regal stance. Rotating atop his injured leg, the steward was slow, but the simmering insult remained on his face as he confronted the peasant and pierced him with his beady gaze.

"Might I remind you it is an honor to serve the King in any manner His Majesty requires, and that there are others who would be far more than willing to see to their Highness' needs, knowing the favor they will procure and the undoubted graciousness His Majesty would soon bestow upon them…"

The stream of words dangerously cool and gathered unhitched the peasant's sure anger. Uncertain and somewhat confused by the lengthy address, the middle-aged man merely grunted and shifted his eyes toward the feast being assembled around them.

"Three lambs," he agreed with a swift spit into his palm then extended toward the steward, "but not a pheasant more until I see what's mine."

A noticeable crease to his nose, the steward accepted the gesture with a limp, reluctant hand and dismissed the peasant.

"Three lambs," a nearby servant repeated under her breath while kneading another batch of dough. "We've not to eat, and the King's up to his jowls in all!"

One stern look from the steward silenced her tongue, but even he –a loyal follower unto his death- couldn't inwardly agree, _A country in poverty. Crops and livestock withered and choking on the rain… And the King asks for more bread to sop up his plate_.

There was a burst of clatter as the plates tumbled to the ground. Desma bounced off the table, scurrying around the cluttered mess she had caused and wringing nervously at the kerchief twisted around her hands. Tears lined her dark eyes when they met the steward's, and she stumbled forward, clutching to his forearms for the strength to stand.

"Where is she?" he hissed.

"I-I've looked everywhere," Desma sputtered and buried her boney knuckles into the old man's flesh as she gripped more tightly. "The study, the garden, the stables…"

"Gather your wits, girl!" Taking her elbows, he shook her roughly, watching as the shock travelled through her whole body and knocked the air from her core. "The Albans will arrive at any moment!"

"They've come nearly a week in advance!"

"And we cannot appear unprepared!" Now he held her steady, bending to level with the desperate flicker of her eyes. "The banquet begins with or without your mistress, but be certain there will be a lashing for you if she is not accounted for! Now go!"

‡‡‡

"You're quiet today," Atlan commented while trailing behind the young woman. Days it had rained, and the soil was pliable and grasping at their feet, smearing across their toes and slowing their journey through the woods. Her posture was tense with shoulders straight and spine unbending, and he could tell well enough what plagued her thoughts for the years spent at her side had taught him the intricacies of carrying on a conversation with the Princess.

"The Albans arrive today," he continued with the ease of a man turning a leaf in a book, searching for the topic that would pique her interest enough to react. "You're nervous to meet them." All at once she squatted to her heels, peering at the small tracks embedded in the soil and knowing they were fresh considering all else had been washed away.

"Aurora…" he said when she still would not answer.

"Yes," she responded brusquely as if an exhale of pent up breath and straightened to her feet once more. Her face was uncertain when it turned to him, her eyes searching for confirmation as she admitted, "But I do not believe it was the Albans who took my family."

"Nor do I."

Satisfied with this accord, Aurora turned once more and followed after her prey where it had taken refuge in the meadow. Nettles tore at her ankle, and she sucked sharply on the air, knocking them away with the tip of her bow, before she stepped out into the open space. The ashy trunks and blackened canopies looming behind them had once been the scene of her nightmare more than a decade ago, but she could brave them by the light of day and with Atlan faithfully at her side.

"I dreamt again last night," she murmured while her eyes scanned the green field turning brown in places where the rain had pooled too heavily.

"Of what?"

"My mother waking me…" Her thumb plucked nervously at the sinew of her bow, agitated by the memory, and Atlan's calm grey gaze considered her.

"Did you see their faces?"

She bowed her head and looked at her dirty feet, lost thinking of that night.

"To your right."

In a flash, her fingers notched a fresh arrow and drew the bow to its full reach. The wood subtly groaned; the sinew ached; the arrow's head poised for attack. Her lips flattened as she held the breath swirling deep inside her belly, letting her body still while she waited for the jerk within the grass. Green waves billowed in the moist breeze, and she centered on the speck of brown hiding in the center. Prey and predator waited for the other to advance, feeling the slow ebb of time pass around them…

Horses' hooves shattered the peaceful silence of the woods, sending the rabbit bounding into its burrow and Aurora diving behind the cover of a fallen tree. The riders burst past like thunder rumbling through the heavens, and she flattened against the bark, feeling the wet soil seep through her dress and into her knees. No words acknowledged her, yet they rode close enough she could smell the lingering sour tinge of sweat on the air in their wake. They carried the breeze after them, and as she heard the distant gallop of their steeds, their exit as abrupt as their appearance, she dared to peek above the trunk and decipher the pack heading east.

Rudy colored horses like clay from the earth, long statures bent over their manes, weapons adorning their sides, and a flag nearly torn from its post as it flailed in the wind.

"Albans…" she whispered though her voice rose in alarm.

"Run!" Atlan commanded. "Through the fields!"

She slung her bow across her back and sprung from her cover, sprinting across the field, through the woods, and toward the palace in the east.

‡‡‡

"What will the council say, My Lord, knowing you've accepted these thieves into your home?"

"Not a word," Savas returned as a servant added the fur-lined cape to his shoulders.

"But, Majesty, I humbly remind Your Grace of the years these villains have pillaged our forests and grasped for our riches. Before their eyes, the world is a bounty to be taken, and I've caught word their prince is more ruthless than his father. He wants war with Umbria to pay the blood they've cost his family-"

Savas extended two fingers stiffly, pausing then to admire the pregnant ruby skewered beneath his knuckle. "All young men want war, Galen… It's hardly a character flaw."

Galen bowed his head, exposing the greasy bulbous point. Years before the hair had fled to feed his ever-growing eyebrows now pinched in thought while his bright eyes searched beneath. After pursing his lips, releasing, and pursing once more, he tentatively added, "You seek peace with men of war."

Savas stiffened, and with one jerk of his chin, the servants scattered from the room. He waited for the chamber door to groan closed before he turned to face his advisor. Pulling on the golden chain fastening the cape across his chest, he countered bluntly, "We cannot afford another war, Galen… My people are starving. The summer is waning. Fall comes, and with it, winter. How many more bodies will be buried beneath our hills?" He shook his burly head and became evermore aware of the golden crown buried into his wiry hair. "Whatever the manner of these men –or lack of– they hold necessary ports in the west, and their King is desperate and foolish enough to consider a proposal between his son and my niece. If this passes, Galen, you will have to pry me from my knees for the praise I will give to the Heavens."

Galen exhaled bitterly but kept his eyes downcast.

Savas gripped the man's shoulder, pressing firmly as he stepped from the pedestal in front of his mirror, and the older man's knees shook with the effort not to buckle. Sensing him still strong and impenetrable, Savas patted his back and smiled candidly. "You've been by my side through the years, Galen. We've seen too much for you to stray from me now."

Their gazes locked, and he nodded nervously. "Of course, My Lord. Your Majesty's wisdom has never led us astray."

The curt knock at the door interrupted their concentration, and Savas barked out, "Enter!"

A servant obeyed with his head respectfully bowed. "A thousand pardons, Your Majesty, but the Princes and their men have arrived."

Savas straightened in thought, knowing the danger and possibility lurking in his decision, but the tides had gone out. It was too late to abandon his course. "Have them escorted to the throne hall… I will join them shortly. And call for my sons. They should welcome our guests as well."

"Yes, My Lord."

The chamber doors closed once more, and Savas glanced at his companion. "What's their game? Arriving a week in advance?"

"Arrogance, Your Grace," Galen answered and fidgeted with his anxious hands. "Alba Longa boasts the strongest riders in the west, a fact the Alban Princes do not wish you to forget."

Though frowning, the King decided, "We will acknowledge their haste and stoke their pride tonight."

"My Lord?"

"I need them agreeable, Galen –no matter the agitation it causes me." After a last adjustment to his cape, Savas advanced toward the door and into the corridor with Galen at his heels. "I won't need you for this."

"What would you have me do?"

"Oversee the final preparations. Be sure that all is in place and beyond any feast your eyes have beheld… And most important, visit our little peace treaty." He narrowed his pale eyes to mark his intent. "She is a prize we do not want the Princes to forget."

‡‡‡

"It's cold!"

"It would have been warm were you in your place and not running about the grounds, but we've no time to heat you a proper bath," Cybele chastised while regaining her brush and scrubbing at Aurora's exposed shoulder.

The younger woman winced and growled through her clenched jaw, "I was in the garden!"

Cybele sucked loudly on her teeth and plucked a piece of straw from Aurora's hair, and the latter had no comment to dispute it. Tossing aside her evidence, she continued scrubbing until the blood bloomed beneath Aurora's skin while muttering, "I've attended to you since you came to the palace over a decade ago… I know where you go each afternoon."

_They arrive a week before they're expected, and we're all to bustle into place like dogs called to their heels_, she lamented and closed her eyes as she feigned immunity to the ache of the brush against her skin. Cybele paused, sniffed Aurora's hair, and added more perfume to the water while her mistress continued aloud, "I don't see why the King panders to them… They're thieves and murderers…"

The older woman sealed her lips from a topic too volatile and dangerous about which to speak, and their attentions turned to Desma startling into the chambers, a manifestation of her nerves and anxiety as she wrung out the kerchief practically stitched to her palms.

"My Lady, I'm told the King will soon depart for the banquet hall. He has sent Lord Galen to escort you."

Aurora's eyes flashed and turned to the mirror-like surface of the bath, recognizing her ghostly expression staring back -vacant and aware. "Tell Lord Galen I am capable of finding the dining hall myself."

Desma's posture shivered anxiously though she bowed her head and backed out of the room. "Yes, My Lady."

"Out with you!" Cybele prompted and reached for a cloth to dry her. "The King won't be kept waiting!"

"Why should my absence disturb His Majesty? He has quite enough to occupy him this night."

"All the more reason not to attract his wrath!"

"I've no desire to deal with these men, Cybele," Aurora groaned into her palm while her slender fingers massage at her forehead, trying to match the pressure building behind her eyes. "I fear why they've come."

The older woman's features softened like the maternal warmth spreading to her voice. "You know there's no fighting it."

The words seeped through her pores with the perfumed water of her bath, and reluctantly, she pulled herself from the water.

‡‡‡

The chills stubbornly clung to her skin and pricked each hair until her body was shivering with the draft inside the palace walls. Her steps were an irate staccato echoing through the corridor, but she was deaf to its resonance. All her attention was directed to the dress her uncle had chosen –a vibrant red like blood against her pale skin, and she could find no peace with the way the fabric nipped at her slender waist and revealed the smooth lines of her chest, the fabric subtly arching around her breasts and straining to reach her shoulders. A golden broach adorned the base of the cut, encouraging the fabric to hang lower and cling tighter to her chest, and she could not bear another moment of its boldness. Her fingers were still numb from her cold bath and clumsy as they worked at the pin. So simple a task and yet Cybele had wound it perfectly in the fabric and at an angle that seemed impossible to address, and the Princess huffed irritably as she discovered she could not remove it. The aggravation built, giving her only purpose and no patience, and all at once, she tugged at the broach as if she could tear it away. The metal was immune to her siege, but its persistence matched her own. Bracing herself, she pulled again, and the pin snapped open unleashing such a wave of satisfaction through her that her skin tingled with renewed vigor; but her victory ended sourly when she collided into the solid mass of a man. She released a short gasp as the pin embedded into her skin, and rebounding, she was stunned, staring down the valley of her breasts to the small prick and the large drop of blood that fell from it to mingle in the fabric of her dress.

Her furious gaze tore from her wound to the source, sweeping up the length of his tall figure until it settled on his face, even more unnerved as she discovered his eyes were enraptured with the cut of her gown and the wound at its deepest point. She flattened her palm across her skin, shielding herself away from him, and he lethargically drew his attention up her neck, across her jawbone, and finally to her face where her fury lay in wait.

The chestnut flickered back and forth between her eyes, and she instantly knew he was comparing the color, subtly discovering how one was a golden green and the other stained a tawny brown. "The touch of the Keres," the superstitious called it, another rumor stemming from the endless night of her past, and one which was popular among servants always whispering behind her back that she had seen the agents of death while lost in the forest. Inevitably, his attention made her feel exposed, but she was too furious to hide away.

"It is a pity," he commented with his gaze lazily wandering across her, "to spoil something so perfect."

Her pulse shuddered to a sprint, and she attempted to steel herself from such vulgar words. "The only pity is that you were raised with no manners," and this centered his attention once more.

"You crashed into me."

"Do you often loiter in the middle of corridors?"

"Less than you walk about blindly. You could have hit a wall."

"Haven't I?" she snapped irritably, unaccustomed to men speaking against her. "You look as dull and as large…" Without another word, she brushed past him and hurried into the hall knowing what would confront her if her uncle were forced to wait a moment longer. She felt his eyes following her back, and she was satisfied and invigorated to know she had secured the final, biting comment in their brief exchange.

Servants opened the doors for her, and she slowed her pace to appear more demure and worthy of her title, though her heart remained at a constant race beneath her breast. The hall was crowded with counselors, generals, lieutenants, wealthy merchants, and her own adopted family, and she recognized less than half of those gathered. It was not uncommon. King Savas would wish to seem affluent, powerful, and above all else rich in the face of his adversaries, now possibly friends if the meeting passed well. The guests circled about the hall, exchanging their titles and professions like pleasantries, while they sipped at heavy chalices of wine and listened to the musicians playing from the back corner. All were dressed in their finest regalia with rich shades of coppers and browns and golds, and she suspected they had not seen these garments for years considering Apulia's growing debt. But they all played their parts well even making her believe for a moment that this was a frivolous celebration, not a strategic political move.

She startled as a hand roughly took her elbow, and she turned to see her eldest cousin Davos poised with reprimand.

"Where have you been?" he growled beneath his breath, and she realized futilely that she had been too late to go unnoticed.

"Has he asked for me?"

"Of course he's asked for you!" Davos released her arm before others noticed, and she anxiously adjusted the robe sitting on her shoulders to grasp at what little modesty she could manage. "Come. You must meet the Princes before this is all ruined."

He guided her through the ranks of those noble officials called to welcome their guests, and her pulse grew with every step until it was numbing her to all else but its rumble inside her chest. The group stood at the center of the hall where others respectfully kept their distance though remaining near enough to eavesdrop when they could manage. Davos pushed past these onlookers, and Aurora followed on his heels.

Her uncle, King Savas, turned grandly at her entrance and swept his arm with a jovial smile, announcing, "Ah, my niece has arrived." Only when his cold blue eyes turned to her could she see the cracks in his mask, truly furious and not amiable. However, he turned toward his guests once more and quipped, "I told you she would be well in a moment."

"We have all felt the effects of the rain," the Queen agreed demurely to add to this charade about her tardiness. Weak women ever falling ill at the slightest breeze. It was a tired act but an effective pretense, and Aurora was anxious enough to hold her tongue.

"Princes Ascanius and Haemon, I present my brother Lycaon's daughter -Aurora."

"We are thankful to find you well," one of the men spoke up, and her attention strayed to him finding him of average height with a crown of pale brown curls and startling blue eyes. His features were etched as if by a skilled sculptor and smoothed by tan skin, and they now parted to grant her a congenial smile which seemed so much more suggestive merely by its owner's handsome demeanor.

She swallowed and promptly turned to the man stepping forward to be at his brother's side when the agitated racing of her heart halted. All too familiar chestnut eyes stared back at her, provoking her like the candid smirk curling his lips, and she swore his appearance were a slap to her face as it had the same stunning effect. _An Alban Prince… What a fool you are!_ Surely he had known it was her when she rushed into him in the corridor, and perhaps what she had mistaken for a salacious comment had in fact been an attempt at a compliment toward her. And now…

"It's a pleasure to meet you at last," he said, eyes blazing, "Princess." The smirk morphed into a full smile that appeared kind and warm to others, but to her pale features, it was akin to an open attack –the lupine look of someone who stumbled upon a fortuitous secret.

Mute and intimidated, she was certain she had ruined it all.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hi my lovelies! A Girl in the War sequel? I swore I would never ever, but apparently my muse doesn't know when to bow out. I realize this first chapter is confusing. I've opened a lot of doors and not shown you what lies behind them, but no worries. Everything has a place, a purpose, and a reason, and I'll explain them all through the course of the story. I will clarify some basic information up front: Haemon is now 29, Ascanius 28, Nereus 27, Ariston 23, Iliana 19, Aeneas 54, and Myrina is deceased (which you already knew from the end of GitW). Since I'm continuing with the settlement after the Trojan War and all the events which follow it, I'm charting unwritten territory and taking full advantage of my artistic license. I always do my best to research and give historical context to anything I write, but I'll admit now that I'm being much more brazen and imaginative because it's very difficult to dig up information about this specific period and location -especially considering Aeneas is a mythical character, and thus, his settlement is non-existent. So if you're a sucker for historically accurate pieces, you might want to turn away now or risk being offended by various anomalies. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy the revival of an old tale and the twist that it has taken :) xoxo


	2. The Shadows

Chapter 2  
"The Shadows"

Hands cold as ice found her arms and shook away the dreams and sleep from her eyes. Aurora groaned and fretted in her numb waking, slapping at the hands like iron shackles pulling her out of her warm bed.

"Quiet!" her mother's hushed tone condemned, and she at length parted her heavy lashes to decipher her mother's outline in the dimming light. The fire crackled distantly, dying out and warning her of the hour.

"Mama," she lamented drowsily when the covers were drawn back, and the cold of the room swept across her.

"Shhh," she soothed in the same tense voice. "You must be quiet, my sun." Aurora was wrapped in the safety of her mother's arms, and her head hung limp and fatigued against the woman's shoulders while she buried her hands beneath her mother's warm robes. Her skin was soft and pliable, and Aurora let her stocky fingers cling to her mother's flesh.

"They're coming up the stairs," Alix warned from across the room, and their mother stiffened, unconsciously hugging tighter to her youngest child.

"Mama," she said again, tugging on her arms, "what's happening?"

"Hush!" her mother answered more sharply now, and lifting her head Aurora could see her mother's pale features illuminated by the full moon peering through her window. "Quickly! The back door."

"What of Leda?"

"Quickly," she repeated through trembling lips, and her brother rushed toward the side door, opening and locking it behind them. They found themselves in her nurse's room. The icy space was littered with shadows, their arms stretching up the walls and toward the ceiling willowy as the Black Woods outside, and Aurora clung tighter to her mother for fear of their chilly grasp. Her hand was shaking as it stroked her daughter's pale hair, but her attempt to soothe only heightened the child's terror. Her mother was always fearless. Always.

A shrill scream pierced the night, and all three were statues, fearing the slightest breath or movement might betray them while their ears strained to discern what unfolded feet from them. Another scream and louder, echoing down the length of the corridor, and now the trembling had spread to her mother's breast. A vase crashed, a final scream, a loud thump, and silence. They waited with breaths swallowed in their lungs until the pressure was unbearable. The unknown void stretched in their minds, and all their worst terrors filled it.

"They've taken Leda," Alix whispered when he could stand no more, and his young features had grown considerably stretching to somehow fit all the horror and disbelief.

"Hush," their mother said through a scratchy voice, and a warm drop landed on Aurora's forearm. Craning back her neck, she saw the tears shining on her mother's pale cheeks but couldn't find the courage to wipe them away. The shadows were drawing nearer. Her mother always held the light to fight away the darkness, but Aurora feared she had forgotten how.

The silence was shattered as the door was thrown open, so close they thought they had been discovered, but these strangers swarmed Aurora's room, making a ruckus as they threw back her bed and turned over tables. So night came knocking upon their door, and they each turned to the wall separating the rooms, so thin and immaterial when faced with the enemy.

"Alix," their mother whispered, her tone so shaking it was hardly audible, "take your sister."

Neither moved, and the torrent of destruction continued to their right.

"Alix," she hissed adopting the voice of their mother, and Alix obediently reached for Aurora, helping unwind her stubborn fingers tangling in their mother's robes and hair. "Let go, my sun," she coaxed softly, but Aurora was not so easily suaded.

"Mama," she whimpered, her full lips quivering and eyes pulsing.

"In a few moments, they will come through this door. You must hide –you and your sister, and above all else you must be quiet. Do you understand?"

Both children stared at their mother, eyes the same shade and faces as youthful and stunned. Her hands caressed their brows, and she attempted to blink the tears from her eyes.

"If you have the chance, run and never stop. Promise me this."

Neither could speak, and her smile was feeble, wiry, false and yet what her children needed.

"Go now. Hide."

The darkness was alive when she opened her eyes, sitting straight in her bed and gasping blindly at the air. It swarmed around her and throbbed with Morpheus' wicked creations, and she strained to focus on the familiar lines of her room. She was suffocated with the memories, and the fresh stench of death –fire and ashes to her nose and tongue. The dream was so vivid she struggled to realize fifteen years had passed since she was that little girl grasping at her mother's robes.

‡‡‡

"Evios' daughter has grown well…"

"Father!" Iliana chided and threw the man a condemning look.

"I only mean for Ariston," Aeneas returned without the faintest appearance of guilt or embarrassment, all of which seemed to funnel into his daughter.

"You meant nothing so innocent," she murmured and checked over her shoulder to be sure the girl in question had heard none of their conversation.

"I have two of my four sons married –perhaps the third soon as well," Aeneas carried on pleasantly and nodded to the group of men who bowed their heads in respect as he passed. "I'm an old ass now, Iliana. My only happiness is my children and cultivating a future for them."

Her chestnut eyes rose to the Heavens, only to circle down once more toward her feet, and she prodded, "You never speak of my being married."

Aeneas promptly stopped and turned in the direction of the torn wall as though he were struck by its progress. "See how swiftly it's mended."

Undeterred, she approached his side and caught his attention with her unyielding intent. "Father…"

His features fell, and his blue eyes flashed, annoyed to have this conversation already. "There isn't a man I've found worthy of your fairness and your qualities."

"You miss Mother," she charged without fear of being condemned for her loose tongue, "and you enjoy that I fill her place in your life –not in the same way, but as close as any woman could."

Again, Aeneas looked to the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, appearing at once aggravated and despondent. "I do miss Myrina," he revealed with a tone reserved only for her name. As he grew older, time seemed a more tangible thing which he could bend to his needs, and perhaps then he gazed along it to a time with his late wife. The sound of a worker's tools falling seemed to remind him of his place, and glancing at his daughter, he finished more soberly, "But you do not replace her for me." They set off toward their home once more, and he left his melancholy character behind them. "You're my only daughter, my youngest," he bent nearer and whispered secretively, "my favorite." Iliana smiled and nudged him away with her shoulder, and he laughed as he ended, "I'll never willingly release you to another man until I know that he will be your happiness and your protector 'til the coins are placed on your eyes."

Still smiling though more incredulous than pleased, she directed his attention toward the men surrounding them. "No man dares step within five paces of me, and those who do look absolutely terrified that you or one of my brothers will round the corner and catch them so much as gazing at me."

"You curse us for it, but we weed out the weaker men. When a man approaches you, you'll know that he has honorable intentions and is worth your consideration."

"Or that he wishes to murder me," she said, each word laced with biting sarcasm, as she sensed her voice being trampled over by her father's.

Seeing her abrupt shift in demeanor, Aeneas attempted to concede what little territory his pride and his fatherly safeguard would allow. "Why does this concern you so much? Has someone caught your interest?"

"No," she lied, purposefully ignoring the forge to their left as they passed it, but she held her breath for a moment as her mind's eye turned to him. "I'm only exhausted of being the youngest," she said to break her own wandering concentration. If her father held a sole motivation, so did she –even if she had never truly talked to the man. "I watch my brothers enjoy the fruits of life first and am expected to wait patiently for my turn to come."

"You never wait, and you rarely come last," he assured her and pinched her side, knowing how she would bounce away with a little screech which made him chuckle. "You're like a little lioness nipping at your siblings for your place in the feeding line."

Only when her chestnut eyes turned on him, gleaming with aggravation, did Aeneas remember she was past the age where his tricks and games amused her. Now he was a proper father: a nuisance to his children more than a friend. His heart receded a bit deeper into his chest, and he was sure he felt the lines in his face fall with it.

"I miss Haemon…" she muttered from the doorway as she followed her father inside. Haemon always listened to her –when he could spare a moment of his time for his little sister.

Pretending he didn't feel the comment as a cut to his chest, Aeneas smiled and said, "The gods willing, he'll be home soon with a gift for our people."

"A wife, you mean." Iliana set the basket on the table and began unloading the vegetables she would use for their soup. She paused to smell the bunch of fresh fennel, savoring its aroma, before she wondered, "Do you think he will love her?"

Aeneas sighed and couldn't deny the exhaustion this train of conversation caused him. Even wise men were disarmed by the sweeping minds of children. He looked more to her features as to a sign of what answer she anticipated, knowing only one was correct, and at length, he decided, "Yes, one day."

"My father gave up a princess for my mother."

"Hector…" He absently knocked his knuckles on the table, beating out his concentration. "He was an exceptional man, and the circumstances of his life are more than any common man could wish for."

"You don't think Haemon is exceptional?"

Her eyes were perfectly open, piercing him with their honesty, and he scratched his beard disconcerted. He grappled between truth and kind words with his daughter, uncertain what she was old enough to hear and what was still too heavy for her to bear. "I think Haemon is more like his father than he will acknowledge, but there will come a day when he sets aside his anger and sees through Hector's eyes... I'm certain he will be greater than any man who came before him."

At last, he had chosen the proper words for Iliana withdrew and took the knife to begin chopping the vegetables.

Aeneas exhaled, nearly sweating, as he recognized an end to their tiresome exchange. "I'll leave before you ask me the purpose of life," he announced, and Iliana smiled impishly, revealing she was aware all along of her role. It seemed he was the one who was still charmed by her games and tricks and likely forever would be. She extended her cheek his direction, and he grinned, sweeping in to place a kiss on her temple. "You're worse than your brothers."

She laughed and continued chopping pleasantly.

"When Ariston arrives, fetch me."

"I will," she agreed, still smiling, and Aeneas left her to the kitchen.

Reflecting on her conversation with her father, she inevitably thought of her eldest brother. Haemon who bore the most striking resemblance to their father: as tall and massive a man with the same dark coloring to his thick curls and beard. He was a fearless leader, a terrifying enemy, and a loyal brother, but honor, duty, and justness did not motivate him. Rather than following the legacy their father's death had laid at his feet, Haemon fought. When the Fates swept him one direction, he struck back and barreled the opposite way. He was propelled by rage, so full of this volatile emotion that it overflowed at the least expected moments. He could smile and as swiftly take you by the neck. It had always seemed a characteristic which they could contain and control –like attempting to lull a beast to sleep once more. His siblings learned to ignore his crass words, his mother avoided what topics she had learned to incite him, but Aeneas was not a man to retreat… It was a common day barely four years after they arrived on these shores that it awoke from him as if it might rip through his skin. Two neighbors had pulled Haemon with a broken nose off his father, and Aeneas had merely wiped the blood from his mouth and remained silent as to what had sent his son into a rage that day.

With a decade separating them, and their opposing sexes as a barrier, Iliana and Haemon had no common ground on which to stand. It was only after their mother died that their dynamic shifted. Iliana suspected Haemon felt guilty that he had not been kinder to their mother during her life, and in his little sister, he saw the opportunity for atonement. He and his brothers behaved as men, jostling, taunting, stirring trouble, fighting, but Iliana's affections necessitated more tact. He soon realized that what his little sister wanted above all else was simply a voice. Where others yelled over her, trampled across her sentences, and ignored her, Haemon sealed his lips and listened, and she loved him more than any other brother for that kindness afforded to her.

"We'll need all that you can manage before Scipio's next attack," Ariston's voice echoed down the corridor and toward the kitchen. Iliana stepped away from the table for a moment, thinking to call for Aeneas, when she heard him answer.

"Of course, but I'm limited by what little I can forge in such a small space."

"Oh," Iliana murmured beneath her breath and looked toward the corridor where she could flee without the men being wiser, then back at the pot beginning to boil at the hearth. It sputtered noisily, spitting out over the top, and she knew it might soon overflow without tending. She rushed to the fire, prodding at the hearth to trim the flame and not ruin the soup she was only just beginning.

"I'm sure we can gather a few men to apprentice," Ariston continued, his voice growing to its full strength when he stepped into the kitchen, and Iliana straightened all at once as if a cornered animal and faced the men.

"I'll call Father," she burst out before either could formally acknowledge her, and Ariston casually looked at his sister and sniffed the air.

"No," he said to halt her hurry toward the corridor. "I will. Keep about it." He motioned toward the soup and smiled hungrily. "Make sure you have enough for all of us." Her chestnut eyes trembled uncertainly, but her brother was oblivious as he called back to Damian, "I'll be a moment. I'm sure Father's looking over his maps again."

He stepped from the room, and in his place all manner of tangled, uncomfortable tension wrought the air. Iliana stared after her brother, her hands twitching anxiously at her sides, and she mused how she could still follow and avoid such a humiliating encounter. Her eyes swept tentatively in Damian's direction, only daring to peek at his feet, and mentally she counted three paces. _This doesn't count!_ her mind growled at her whimsy, and she jerked like a nervous animal, returning to the table and chopping. _Say something… It's kind of you to help Father. You're really very skilled. Do you find the heat a hindrance? I hope Ariston hasn't plagued you with his rambling._ Her tongue was tied with the million thoughts rushing to fall from her lips, and each seemed so trivial, so trite, so stupid that she couldn't bring herself to say a single thing.

"It looks like it will rain today."

She perked up uncertainly, meeting his dark gaze which didn't dart away from her this time, and she realized with numb pleasure that he had spoken first. The blood nipped at her cheeks, and she smiled shyly. "Does it?"

He nodded, and the edges of his mouth drew away. Briefly, her features fell open to see him reward her with a smile, which she returned as if hesitating even the slightest might discourage him.

"Damian," Aeneas said to announce his arrival, and immediately the two looked away from each other. A conversation suddenly seemed too daring as it stirred a year's worth of pent up desires. He was swept away with her father and brother, leaving only the faint scent of ashes in his wake as he passed by her. She caught his gaze with a fleeting, sidelong glance before he left her sight completely, and that one glimpse validated all the others.

‡‡‡

"It is a pity… To spoil something so perfect!" Ascanius burst into laughter almost kicking the floor as he held his chest to sustain his roar. Bending over his knees, he realized, "No wonder the woman didn't say a word at dinner!"

"I was being polite," Haemon returned seeming as unconcerned as his brother was amused, though recalling the look on the Princess' face when she realized his identity did spur a smile.

"Complimenting a woman's breasts is not exactly tactful, brother."

"I wasn't commenting on her breasts." He idly picked at the dirt beneath his fingernail with the tip of his dagger, bored and tired of waiting when he could be better used protecting their borders from Umbria's onslaught. "She has none of which to speak."

Again, Ascanius threw his head back and laughed, and his brother smiled at his own wit. When he could manage to catch his breath and wipe the tears from the edges of his eyes, he said, "You shouldn't be cruel to her. Isn't it torture enough she has to marry you?"

Ascanius' forearms narrowly deflected the empty chalice thrown his direction, and Haemon corrected, "She'll only have the pleasure if she is Lycaon's daughter –which I doubt."

"She knows how to speak down to men."

"She has no skill for it."

"Perhaps she's sweet."

In his mind's eye, he saw her venomous gaze peering up at him and chucked. "She's not sweet."

"I think you scared her away," Ascanius continued, still laughing as he thought of Haemon's brash words to the Princess in the hallway.

Before the other man could retort, Solon entered, and both Princes turned their attentions to the ambassador who bowed his head in a hurry.

"Forgive my lateness," he began breathlessly, and his features were shining with sweat as though he had sprinted from one end of the palace to the other. "Savas wished to speak with me this morning as well, and being our host, his company took priority."

"It's almost noon," Ascanius pointed out, both brothers equally perturbed to wait on their subordinates though there was not much else to draw their attention in the foreign palace.

"Yes, well," he muttered and adjusted his robes, "it seems the King took your arrival as an agreement. It was my duty to correct his hasty judgment." Solon's eyes swiveled irritably toward his lieges, knowing they could not justly imagine the thorny political discussion he had to smooth over.

"I won't return with an imposter at my side. Any king should understand that," Haemon spoke.

"No king enjoys being accused of lying."

"Or he's aggravated we've found out his secret."

Solon exhaled a restrained grumble and adopted the air of an ambassador, cool and cordial. "The King wishes to know how he might ease your worried minds."

"We will investigate this matter ourselves," Ascanius acknowledged and stood from his seat to pace toward the window where the rain was beating down and pooling at the entrance of the window.

The ambassador's features hardened, his suspicious gaze turning from Ascanius to Haemon who continued about his idle work without looking up from his hands. "What have you done?" Both were silent with mutual confidence, and Solon's eyes nearly burst forth from his head. "Do you realize the delicacy of this situation? You risk inciting a war by merely stepping down the wrong corridor!"

"The matter is being handled discretely, Solon," Haemon said and finally sheathed the knife. "If she is not Lycaon's heir, we will have proof within the week."

‡‡‡

"Are you hungry?"

"No," Aurora assured him and passed her damp cloak to the servant. The rains had begun again, a sign summer was waning to fall, and the storms would bring the chill from the mountains down to their lands. It was an untimely development given the Princes' presence at the palace. None would dare traverse outside with the mud, the chill, and the dampness, and so they would all be trapped within the confines of the palace to face one another and the mounting restlessness. Aurora couldn't bear it –not with her dream weighing heavily on her mind.

Ignoring her, Atlan instructed a servant to bring them soup and answered Aurora's perturbed gaze, "You barely eat when you're tensed. You need your strength. You can't seem weak around this men."

She had no mind for arguing and led herself to the small dining area where she settled into a seat at the table, as comfortable in Atlan's home as if it were her own, then again she had spent years within the comfort of its walls whenever she wished to escape. Atlan's final comment reminded her of the Princes whom she would be forced to face at dinner once more that night. The memory of his omniscient smile nipped at her, every pinch causing a grimace of embarrassment to flood her at her brashness and foolishness, and she dreaded the torture of his presence. Several times the previous night he had directed a statement toward her or inquired about some menial aspect, and she could only glimpse at him, eyes wide and tongue mute like a child who had been scorned by a parent and couldn't dare to utter another word. How long would his silence please him? How long before he revealed her behavior to Savas? She could not predict what retribution would await her as she rested her elbows on the wood and placed her face in her hands, deflating in a long exhale. "Only one day they have been here, and I'm already weary of them."

"You despise anyone who draws too near you," he commented while taking the seat opposite her.

"I have too much to consider," she amended and dropped her hands from before her face, and she considered the man's wrinkled features, pale as her own but so visibly worn from the hardships he had faced. His cool grey eyes were slightly sunken beneath the weight of his brow, and his pale blonde hair faded to white in places, almost blending into the tone of his skin and eradicating him of anything but the lines in his face. Staring at him, she wondered how the time had run from them so swiftly. Only shadows remained of the hunter who had found her in the woods more than a decade ago, and she swore she would give her bones for him to remain at her side. He was the sole person she trusted on this earth.

"You're dreaming again," he understood, and a servant placed a bowl of hot soup in front of him and then before Aurora as well.

"I'm remembering more… They're so vivid. I think it is a sign. I think I'm drawing closer to understanding."

Despite her enraptured revelation, Atlan bowed his head to attend to his soup, and only acknowledged the pause in her speech by pointing his spoon at her own untouched bowl. Obedient as a child, Aurora picked up her spoon and looked at the soup, feeling the waves of steam waft toward her face and warm her cold nose. She moved the pieces of vegetables around, but Atlan was not fooled. Only when she took a bite and chewed did he allow the conversation to continue.

"It's been fifteen years, Aurora. We've searched out every possibility, but each road leads to nothing. Your dreams are not a divine message from the gods… They're a manifestation of your nerves brought on by the Princes' arrival."

"This has nothing to do with them!" she snapped with such abrupt anger, insulted by the insinuation that anyone could affect something so private, so personal to her.

"Peace," Atlan appeased without the slightest disruption to his calm demeanor. "Finish your meal… Tell me about your dream."

She considered him haughtily, making a show of the silence between them, but her fixation could not be hushed. "I dreamt of my mother waking me-"

"As you did the night before," he pointed out.

"Yes, but I've never…" She extended her hands out before her trying to grasp at the elusive language to explain the sensation that gripped her still like knives to her gut and a weight to her chest. "I could feel her hands on me, Atlan. I could feel her!"

"She's dead, Aurora."

She would not be disheartened, and she ignored his contribution, rushing onward, "My father knew he would be betrayed. He alluded to it in his notes."

"His notes are senseless," Atlan intervened. "He wrote pieces of thoughts that have no meaning without context."

"Then why would my brother have given them to me to hide if they meant nothing!"

He waited for the rush of her anger to pass and said calmly, "You are grasping at air, Aurora. It is time you stopped looking over your shoulder and faced the day ahead of you. You might realize that it is dawn, that there is time for you to begin again."

Her eyes were pained staring at him, her face contorted almost in betrayal, and she shook her head. "You are the only one who has ever believed me."

"And I still do, but now there is an opportunity for you to move on."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, looking more alarmed as if a secret brewed beyond her knowledge.

Atlan sighed gently and set down his spoon, so simple a gesture though it meant everything to the shift in their conversation. "I'm glad you came to speak with me today. There is something I've need to discuss with you." She was stiff in her seat, still as a statue, but her eyes followed his slightest movement, searching his grey eyes for the words before he spoke them. "You should be cautious of the company which surrounds you… It is dangerous to visit me."

"Why are you speaking like this?"

"I've heard the King has been discussing your conduct."

The frown on her face could not capture her displeasure or her confusion. "For years the King has not acknowledged that I still breathe let alone told me he disapproves of my behavior."

"With the Alban Princes in the palace, Savas is cautious about maintaining appearances."

"And why should an Alban Prince be bothered by the company I keep?"

His frank expression drove a knife beneath her breast before he ever answered, "Prince Haemon came here to negotiate for your hand."

She hurried to her feet, siezed by sudden terror, but she could not fathom such a turn. Long had she been past the marriageable age. Long had her uncle overlooked her…

"It has not been finalized," Atlan spoke and too was standing to face her. "This is a delicate arrangement, Aurora –one for which peace hangs tandem. It is best to please the King."

"I am twenty-six, orphan, and still a virgin," she said in a hollow tone. "What could any man want with me?"

"You are the sole heir of Lycaon, son of Gallad."

"If my blood interests him, then he can have it. He'll discover it holds no power. I am trapped beneath my uncle's thumb."

"Not if you marry."

Aurora's features hardened with renewed purpose, and she shook her head forcefully. "No."

"A shadow follows you, Aurora. I watch it creep closer each day, wind its way around your throat, choke the youth from your spirit. If you remain here, I fear it will be the death of you."

"You know I cannot leave. How dare you ask it of me."

"I am only asking what a father would of his daughter."

"I have no father. He was killed years ago –murdered in his own home, and his killers wander free! I will not leave until those men are captured, charged, and hanged. Perhaps Prince Haemon could offer their heads as a bride price!"

"You think death will bring you peace?"

"Death stole my innocence, my happiness, my family! Why can it not give me something now?"

Atlan drew closer like a handler to a nervous steed, trying to grasp onto the leash that would control her agitation. "You're afraid of marriage. I understand. But you can't hide behind your past. It won't shield you from the nightmares and the pain. You carry your name like a burden upon your back, but I see the exhaustion in your eyes. Leave this, Aurora. I beg of you. Leave this and begin anew!"

"I am not a phoenix to rise from the ashes…" The search had consumed her for fifteen years. She did not know how to abandon it –least to become someone's wife. Her body was trembling, the anger and anxiety rushing through her as though it might tear her in two, and she hurried toward the threshold. "I must know why my family had to die, and if you won't help me, I will do it alone."

‡‡‡

The tides of day shifted to the darkness of night. Basins full of roaring fire lined the hallways, and his own chambers were scattered with candles and an open fire stoked in the center. Night brought with it the chill promise of fall's approach, and as he adjusted the lacing on his robes, he mused how he should have brought heavier clothes to fight away the cold; but he had never considered this a matter that would require much time. Marriage was nothing more than a contract between two countries that could ease the fears of his countrymen, and to that end, he gave it no further thought –even as his unruly memories wound a tale that made his head ache. Memories of a man who placed honor above family, who had paid the ultimate price, and who lay now beyond the River Styx. Haemon had tried to forget like cutting the decaying flesh of an infection from his body. It weakened him, and it was easier to look away. He wished he had looked away that day so long ago instead of realizing that in death you are alone. To face Hades, to understand how short the wick of your life, to see how swiftly the flame might be snuffed, to acknowledge how small and insignificant your place no matter how towering you once thought your purpose. All men are mortal. All life ends the same. And in that way, why did any of it matter? In these times, he envisioned meeting this man, and lke two pieces of glass mirroring the other, they would stand as tall. Would they embrace like old friends sharing the same secret?

"No," he muttered unconsciously, so engaged in his thoughts that he did not realize how they spilled over into his reality. "Because you are not the same."

"Speaking to yourself again, brother?"

Haemon turned to see Ascanius had entered and was dressed as well for dinner, and the former jested half-heartedly, "It's more entertaining than your company."

Ascanius was immune to the jab and merely adjusted the cuff on his wrist. "We should leave for the hall before the others are left to wait."

"You'd never let the wine wait, brother."

"It would be an insult to our hosts," he said and grinned.

Haemon tied off the threads, nearly tearing them with his rough hands, and muttered, "So you say."

The large doors groaned again, and their attentions were drawn to the threshold where the guard Kaunos entered and bowed before them. "I bring news, My Lords."

"What have you discovered?" Haemon wondered, intrigued at how swiftly he had acquired intelligence on this matter.

"The Princess left the palace this afternoon," Kaunos answered.

Haemon and Ascanius shared a similar look, teeming with inferences, and the latter pressed, "Where to?"

"A man's home on the outskirts of the city. They say he is Atlan, son of Borus, the King's hunter."

Haemon smirked with the arrogant pleasure of a man proved correct in his assumptions, but Ascanius had an alternate theory, "Her lover, perhaps?"

"Her messenger. She receives her instructions through him."

"Why a hunter and not a councilman?"

"Because none would suspect a hunter. He's insignificant as a servant by all appearances."

Ascanius was not similarly convinced. "It's very foolish for her to run to the man a day after our arrival."

"She had no reason to think she was followed." He shrugged as though her reasoning was of no concern to him. "And she is a woman. She's victim to her emotions. The pressure might be too great."

"We've been here one day," he disagreed. "I think it much more reasonable to assume an affair."

"Isn't it as foolish to run into her lover's arms when we are here?"

"As you said, she's passionate. Maybe your words incited her."

Haemon couldn't spare a laugh at the notion. "Affair or conspiracy, these are grounds to deny the engagement. We can return home and deal with Umbria."

"And what will we tell Savas? Our spies have been watching your supposed niece, and we think her behavior unfitting?"

"Let Solon handle it," Haemon muttered dismissively.

"I'm as eager to return home as you are, but we need more than an assumption, Haemon."

At length he met Ascanius' earnest expression, and his chin dipped slightly, knowing the truth in his brother's words no matter his impatience and his annoyance. "Then we will find our evidence." He turned to Kaunos who awaited further instruction and instructed, "Bring me something more concrete."

The guard bowed and exited the chambers, leaving the two brothers to settle their own plan of action.

"We'll stall the engagement until we're sure," Ascanius assured his brother, and Haemon nodded brusquely while striding toward the door.

"Let us be swift about it. I won't waste time on a pretender."

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hey my loves! I apologize if some of you noticed the "story not found. code 1." I'm honestly not sure what it meant, but I ended up sending an e-mail to the support team which seemed to work :) Hopefully all is well now! So things are still a bit mysterious, but the next chapter will clear up some key points!

Thank you to AmyLNelson and klandgraf2007 for the sweet reviews!

Amy: You're so sweet :) I was really worried that I would somehow disappoint people, and I'm relieved and happy to know you are enjoying it -well, so far! As for my fast writing, I've actually been building this plot for like months haha I just couldn't find the right way to apply it, and then I was browsing through GitW and it seemed so obvious. I probably won't be this fast all the time, but might as well take advantage of it while I can! As for Paris and Helen, I'm letting mythology take the reigns. Depending on which story you read, Helen went back to Menelaus (whether or not she flashed her boobies first is up for debate haha), and Paris was wounded by Philoctetes in battle and dies. Thanks so much for the input and patience and support! It means a lot xoxo

klandgraf: Ah I'm so glad you loved the irony with Aeneas. It seems so fitting, doesn't it? He knows what a cad he was in the past, and he's like growling at any guy who gets close to Iliana haha Haemon is meant to be like Hector, but clearly he has some issues with that. He's a bit more brutal, more intense. As for Iliana and Myrina, I didn't intentionally mean to make them alike though it makes sense they would favor each other somewhat. I think in following chapters, you'll see Iliana's very sweet and very naive :) I'm so happy you enjoyed it, and I really hope the momentum keeps going! :D xx


	3. A Storm Brewing

Chapter 3  
"A Storm Brewing"

"We've received word Umbria stations troops along the western bank of the Albula River," Nereus explained while tracing his finger along the faded map stretched across Aeneas' table. "I believe they're working their way toward Port Sanna where they hope to overthrow our forces and instill themselves."

"It's a far reach for Scipio to dare into western territory," the Alban King observed, but the creasing of his handsome features suggested the notion could not be so easily dissolved from his thoughts.

"He won't be able to hold onto the port," Ariston added with a heavy shrug. "Let him attempt it. We have the foresight now to send our forces to bolster Sanna."

"It does seem that simple, brother," Nereus said narrowing his sharp blue eyes and stubbed his finger purposefully on the city in question, "but it is not. I doubt Scipio attacks without any foresight. He knows he won't be able to hold onto Sanna. That isn't the point."

"Then what is?" Aeneas pressed, still focusing on the port they so narrowly held in their grasps. It was one of the few strongholds Alba Longa had secured that provided fruitful trade to bolster their treasury and their own supplies while adding incentive for the formation of alliances with more inland regions. If they lost hold of it, they would find themselves cut off from those benefits and vulnerable to betrayal.

"He only needs to hold the port for a month perhaps two –enough time for him to sack our supplies and intercept any shipments arriving from our allies." The Prince applied the bulk of his pressure upon his finger, making the tip turn white where it erased the city on the map from the other men's views. "That alone would make this strategy worth attempting. Umbria would be richer, and we poorer."

"_Again_," Ariston spoke up with a harsher air, "we can cease their attack before they travel far enough west to attempt it. Let us ride to meet them and send them running for their lands once more!"

"_Again_, little brother," Nereus nearly growled through his teeth, spinning his fierce blue eyes on his sibling, "it is not that simple. The Sabines and Umbria were allied before we arrived on these shores. Yes, the Sabine King Varro has shown no concern with our growth so long as we have remained west and south of his territory, but simply because we have not given him a reason to attack us does not mean he won't rise to the call of his allies."

With this abrupt announcement, the Prince managed to silence his brother and father alike, and he searched the tense stillness, knowing he could have handled his delivery more delicately. But it was too late to suck the venomous words from the air. The possibility roughed each man's nerves, and in that their mutual speechlessness was ripe with anxiety.

Nereus could bear it no more and added brusquely, uncertainly, agitatedly, "It is what I would do."

"Scipio is not so clever," Aeneas commented at last and both sons considered their father, expecting the infinite stretch of his wisdom to reach out and smooth this situation, but the King's face was vacant as he gazed at the map, "but even blind men may stumble upon the right path."

"We can't divide our troops between Sanna and our eastern borders," the youngest Alban Prince added, feigning a strong face which only made his anxiety the more evident. "Their numbers will be too small to stop either attack. We have to choose."

"What choice?" muttered Nereus beneath his breath, but in the imminent silence, it was heard by all in attendance. He promptly gathered his stature and attempted to ease the tension he had cultivated. "I have no evidence to support my theory. Scipio's never shown this amount of strategy in our previous encounters. There's no reason to believe he will be more intelligent this time. Perhaps he has no intention of rallying the Sabines tribe."

Ariston and Aeneas granted him the same potent look, ripe with disbelief and annoyance to be provoked and then calmed, and Nereus shook his head to find himself planted between two opposing theories with no ideal answer to either. "The only thing we know is that Scipio and his men are moving west along the Albula River," he pointed out. "That should be our most immediate concern."

Ariston did not miss the chance to preach a final time, "Let us send troops to Sanna!"

The King's chair groaned as its inhabitant shifted his weight across one arm, and Aeneas' expression was one of placidity in place of anxiety. "We're agreed," he stated and nodded stiffly. "Send supplies to Sanna. They should prepare for a siege. We'll send troops to halt Umbria's advance and concentrate our attack there, but we will keep our eyes on our borders. If Varro moves, we will deal with it."

His tone was final, and Ariston was only too eager to leave the room and begin executing their father's orders. Nereus lingered watching Aeneas rise from his seat and stretch his old bones and gave the King time before he admitted, "We should call for Haemon and Ascanius. This requires a more thoughtful approach than Ariston's bravado."

"We haven't received word yet from either of your brothers."

"No, we haven't."

"Then we have no knowledge of affairs in Apulia." Aeneas placed a hand on his son's shoulder and guided them to the door, pausing at its threshold to finish this exchange. "Haemon and Ascanius are precisely where we need them, Nereus. If your intuitions are proven, we'll need allies to provide us men and weapons… We can't afford to end negotiations with Apulia."

Nereus searched his father's eyes while he found the wisdom in his words and placed his hand upon the King's shoulder. "Tonight I will pray for Haemon… and his wife."

Aeneas gripped more firmly and smiled through his fatigue. "As will I."

‡‡‡

The rain smothered the life from the city, making even the flourish of green leaves hang listlessly and wasting away the vibrancy of their color as they adopted the sheen of grey sleet from the onslaught. Against its hazy halo, the city peeked through the thin veil where it was caught between the dense forests and the palace in its center. Pedestrians retired to the warmth and dryness of their homes so that the muddy streets were occupied only by the pits turned to small pools of water, and silence underlined the lull of rain falling onto the streets and roofs and woods. Barion was haunting in its vacancy this morning, yet Aurora stared into its face, knowing well the blurred lines of houses stretching out beneath her window seat. Pillows were piled under her, a mask of comfort to her stone prison, but even their material was damp and cold from the rain daring to fall inside the window. She drew her robe closer around her, feeling the soft fur of its collar brush her numb cheeks, and continued to gaze across the view at once surveying and mesmerized. The fire crackled behind her where Desma had drawn her stool close and sat tending to her weaving to occupy her nervous hands and clamor of a mind, but as Aurora glanced into the confines of her room, she found her handmaiden's chin upon her chest with her hands stiffly balled around the thread in her lap and her eyelashes fluttering in agitated sleep. For a moment, her mistress observed her, knowing she had been seduced to sleep by the lullaby of rain but finding it pitiful how the young woman's plaguing anxiety could not be soothed by even rest. It was testament to the power of this palace within whose colorless walls they were each haunted by their own demons.

Her lungs were coated with the rain lingering in the air, and its pervasive chill shuddered through her, making her take refuge deeper into the pillows and her own robe. As her mismatched eyes swept out, tossing the net of her attention through the window once more, she discovered a sole figure wrapped tightly in a black cloak daring to brave the sheets of rain. By the height and bulky shoulders, she could assume it was a man as he charged through the puddles and muddy roads to his destination without the faintest inkling about the woman keeping watch above him. He disappeared behind the corner of a home where the angle hid him from her sight, and she idly watched to see if this phantom might reappear. As she waited, staring at that lonely corner, she envisioned days spent in this seat when the sun beckoned the peasants out to handle their work. She could admire their perfectly imperfect order, bustling through the streets, barking out commands and salutations and insults, and fighting for every ounce of life they drew. Times had left each man suspicious of his neighbor and greedy of the riches he possessed almost baring his teeth like a territorial dog toward any who would tread too near. Desperation dehumanized those sorrowful peasants who provided the action to an unwitting play for the Princess sitting upon her pillows and clinging at her expensive robes. The same Princess prevailed in town gossip ever since the peasants laid their horrified eyes on the little girl Atlan emerged from the forest with whose blood stained feet, soiled clothes, and ghastly pale complexion haunted all. Fear fed the tales of her family's murder, her role in that night, the subsequent days she spent lost in the forest, and the curses that followed her and would spread to any who so much as looked at her.

Ironically, it only made her a more curious commodity, and they were eager to throw their eyes upon her like they expected her to emerge from the palace as some manner of witch, terrifying and omnipotent, and were disappointed to discover a mere mortal. Still, their hushed words were inescapable –even the servants fell victim to them. They averted their eyes when she approached and peeked through their lashes after her, then running to tell another of the Princess' gait and expression and the chill wind that followed her. "The touch of the Keres," the other would soon condemn and mind the servant to be careful of attracting their attentions. At times they grew bored of the tales and weaved them into something more creative. For a while they charged that she had not been touched by the spirits of death –nay, her spirit had half-torn from her body, making her part Keres and part human. "Why else would she have the eyes of a she-wolf?" they would say, bolstering their accusation with some tale from a nameless source who claimed her eyes gazed upon him and he felt they called for his soul. None disbarred these allegations. Fear was too contagious and sly a disease to avoid, filling the cracks wrought by poverty and hunger. So their empty tongues busied with a tired tale, and Aurora grew more recluse, only making the voices bolder when she bowed away. For as mighty and fierce as they shaped her, their orphaned Princess was vulnerable to their slander and frightened by their attention.

The parchment felt brittle and sticky in her hands as she drew her knees closer, feeling the needles prick at her legs where they were falling asleep, and she feared crushing the paper against her chest but could not set it aside yet. Her father's words weaved through the veins of her mind, slow and persistent even as the rain distracted her. Its lullaby was seductive, and she stifled a yawn behind her palm and was forced to recognize the dreams, the sleepless nights, the pressure… She sunk lower, almost collapsing in on herself to fit against the unyielding wall, and desired nothing more than a break to her task. Only the truth would ease her restless soul, and in that moment, the exhaustion was so extreme that her muscles seemed to melt from her, making her so weak and fragile that even a stray drop of rain landing on her arm felt dangerous to her glass spirit.

Gazing upon the aged parchment and the ink seeping into the page to disappear with time, the last of her father's voice to be silenced forever, she felt impotent. What retribution awaited her family when she would never be worthy of her father's legacy? Why did her brother not stand in her place? He had always been the braver of the two –sending her away into the woods while he, still a child himself, faced the men chasing them. She was responsible for surviving, and that weight would follow her to the River Styx. Now, this Alban Prince threatened to steal her away from everything that she knew, making a mockery of her inadequacy with his blatant disregard for it. There was a time she would have been given to a prince, but that obligation died with her father. And so she dedicated herself to the sole task worthy of her attention and her consideration…

"You knew," she whispered and stared deeper into the fading words. "Why could you not _say_ it?"

There was no answer. Only the sounds of the rain and the crackling fire and the riddles of Lycaon's inconsistent notes…

"_Too much is said, and too much is heard. Ever the eyes are on me awaiting the chance to strike."_

She had read the line for fifteen years, and it gave her no direction. Her father was the Crown Prince. Daily he was surrounded by servants, councilmen, aids, and guards, and that was only within the limitations of his home. Beyond those walls, he encountered so many more. It was impossible to weed through their ranks and part the loyal from the treacherous. But her father knew his attackers –that much was clear from his notes, and consequently, she must have known who they were.

She drew her finger across the script, imaging what her father had thought while writing these words. Her attention was constantly drawn to "the eyes." Whose eyes? The events of that night were scattered in her memory, disjunctive and limited by what her childish mind could understand, and she could not recall the men's faces to examine with a mature eye.

"But you knew them," she groaned to herself, and her fingers flexed impatient with the desire to throw aside this shroud of mystery and shed light on that dark night.

_The eyes_.

So near surrender for the umpteenth time, the two words struck a chord, and she faced this abrupt revelation almost suspicious of its appearance after all these years. Then at once she was on her feet, the parchment neglected to the window seat behind her, and Desma startled out of her seat when she felt Aurora brush past her. The Princess hurried from her chambers without acknowledging her handmaiden's nervous calls flung after her.

"My Lady," Desma said as she scurried after her mistress into the corridor and tried to blink the sleep from her eyes, "the King has expressed his desire that you remain within the palace. It is so dreary outside… He fears you will fall ill."

Still mute, Aurora weaved through the corners and passages toward her uncle's quarters with a sole intent to guide her swift pace.

Desma seemed to realize their path and rushed closer to the Princess. "My Lady, if you wish an audience with the King, I can arrange one, but it would be most impudent to seek his counsel unannounced. His Highness is so preoccupied-"

Her timid speech was abruptly silenced as they entered the passage to the King's chambers where the door was guarded by two men. They straightened to full attention upon seeing her approach, and one man expressed in a gruff voice, "The King speaks to Lord Galen now, My Lady."

"Give me your hand," Aurora demanded, and the guard's eyes darted toward the Princess, alarmed and confused.

"My Lady?"

"Your hand," she growled, leaving him no space to question her authority, and he reluctantly released his spear to offer his left hand. "The other!" With the obedience of a soldier, he extended his right hand, and she grasped onto his swollen fingers nearly wrenching them from their sockets so that she could see the ring on his forefinger. It fit so snuggly the flesh would require cutting to release the gold ring, but his predecessor had likely been a more slender man. Its face was embossed with the mark of the King's personal guards: meant to symbolize the guards' constant presence protecting and surrounding the King, an ellipse encapsulating a small circle. As she stared at it so intently and so furiously, she knew without the slightest of doubt that the emblem bore a striking resemblance to what her father had suspected. It had been in front of her all along.

‡‡‡

"There has been new information to suggest what we suspected before journeying to Barion. Ascanius and I continue to seek out answers and delay any commitment on our part. I hope that within the week I will be able to send you a letter with my final decision," Haemon dictated in a slow, even tone as he paced before the table where the scribe committed each word to parchment. His chestnut eyes traced the stone floor piled with heavy rugs, rich burgundys with black and gold patterns, and his mind followed their lines to a worn concern, then falling from his lips, "What news of Umbria? We've heard nothing the north… I can only hope that means peace for Alba Longa and that our soldiers have not been forced onto the battlefield again-"

The bronze hinges groaned loudly as his chamber doors opened, yielding to Ascanius and Solon, the latter of which looked utterly perturbed, and the Prince needed only one guess as to why. Their presence was an exacerbation of this foul situation, becoming more a nuisance to him with each day they delayed ending the engagement. He saw no purpose to it when it was so evident to him that this woman was not made to rule a country. Her substance was not that of a future queen to stand at his side, bolster his outlook, and give him an heir. The woman could scarcely look him in the eye.

Haemon turned to the scribe once more and ended, "I will send word soon, and I pray for peace in our lands during my absence." The scribe's quill quivered in the air as he scratched away at the parchment and then nodded firmly to show he had finished. The Prince looked to the ambassador and his brother even as he instructed, "Have a messenger sent to Alba Longa at once." The scribe began gathering his things, distracting Haemon's tired mind, but he wondered, "What is it now?"

"Savas is growing impatient," Solon answered as though the answer had been sitting on the edge of his tongue ready to leap into the air at the slightest prompting. "It is an insult to house you within his palace, feed you, and tend to your needs while you make no effort to acknowledge this engagement."

"Is our presence not acknowledgment enough for the King?" he countered incredulously.

"No." Solon's features shuddered as though a wave of irritation simmered beneath his skin, and he explained, "He has not seen you take any interest in his niece."

Haemon's gaze turned his brother, thinking Ascanius capable of deciphering this ridiculous accusation, but the Prince reluctantly admitted, "We have sought to reveal her true identity, and we have neglected to play along with the King's game."

He exhaled gruffly through his nostrils like an agitated animal and released the arms crossed over his chest to sit stiffly at his sides. "I thought we were agreed to delay the engagement until we had more evidence."

"We are," Ascanius assented though Solon kept his answer to himself, responding more through his silence as to his thoughts on the situation.

"And now you come to me advising me to show an interest in the woman?" He clarified with a frown growing into the lines of his features, amazed he was the only to see a fault between the two competing plans of action.

"We don't expect you to pursue her," Ascanius continued. Still, the ambassador remained silent, his sharp tongue dulled by things that could not be spoken, though his eyes pulsed from his head, pressing against his skull by the ever present head ache this affair had given him.

"I've tried speaking with her," the man countered. "She's little more than a mute."

Here, Ascanius and Solon glimpsed at each other, sharing a look that referenced a conversation they had held before seeking Haemon's audience, and the Prince had a sinking sensation that this exchange was a mere formality. He had no real contribution to whatever they had planned, and his aggravation brewed in the base of his mind, subtly darkening his eyes as they stared at the two men.

Ascanius turned to his brother, recognizing the hardened expression, and he suggested calmly, "Send her a gift."

"And that will please Savas to imagine I'm courting his niece?"

"Yes," Solon responded flatly, both men now giving Haemon the same look of finality.

"Fine," he muttered to dismiss them and turned away. "Send her something."

"Jewelry would be appropriate for the Princess, My Lord," Solon suggested. His flattery made a full recovery now that he had accomplished his purpose and could continue weaving this engagement to his liking and the benefit of his political career.

Haemon found his cup of wine and gruffly said, "Then send her jewelry."

"A wise choice," Solon agreed and bowed his head to hide his smile. "If you will excuse me, My Lords, I will see to finding something worthy of the Princess' fairness. I'd think Prince Haemon would like it reach her before the evening given the time that has already been wasted-"

"Go," Ascanius interrupted for his brother who had receded deeper into his chambers and watched the tension building in his tall stature. Solon, for once, retreated without requiring the final word and left the two men to the silence of the Crown Prince's chambers.

The elder man left his brother's lingering presence unacknowledged, but Ascanius brushed aside the insult. "This isn't a battle, Haemon," he spoke up but was purposeful to keep his distance. "If this isn't what you want, we can return home."

He smirked at the notion, turning then to look at Ascanius' face as though he anticipated a jovial smile and not the man's earnest expression. "No, we'll return when the job is done."

"You consider your marriage a job?"

"I consider it an opportunity to better our standing and ease our people's fears." It sounded like a recitation meant to deflect any real obligation from him, but his eyes were too honest.

Ascanius hesitated facing the notion that this truly meant nothing to his brother but challenged his resoluteness with a single question, "Then why not marry her?" He extended his open palms and pressed, "If that is the only reason we've come here, why the charade? Why the investigation? Why not bring Alba Longa a princess and be done with it?"

Swirling the cup in his hand, his eyes fell to the dark liquid brimming inside, and he dryly replied, "I like the wine."

"Don't be an ass."

"I'm building a future for our people," Haemon challenged to such an allegation. "That is the only way that we will survive. I could marry an Alban woman, but what advantage would that give us?"

"You are more than a political tool, Haemon. You don't need to sacrifice your future for our lands. No one has asked that of you."

"No one needs to. This is my decision. When Aeneas dies, I will lead, brother, and so I must act like a king." He surveyed his brother, seeming to hold the insult before he finally delivered it, "Ariston would do well to follow suit and put Alba Longa's needs above his own."

_Since Nereus and I did not_, Ascanius understood the implication and rose to meet it. "This has nothing to do with the Princess or Alba Longa's future!" Ascanius charged suddenly, aggravated to be mocked when he was trying to be sincere. "This is about Hector. You can't stand the thought of following in his steps. He denied a princess and so you take the first one offered to you. That does not make you wiser, brother. You still sacrifice your life for your people. You've only chosen it much sooner than your father did."

His eyes were two onyx stones as hard and dark staring at his brother and killing the words in Ascanius' throat. The fist on his cup threatening the break the bronze mold while the muscles around him settled into place making him so still and rigid the edges of his silhouette seemed cut from the space. Yet his voice was deceivingly calm as he commanded, "Leave."

For a moment, Ascanius grappled with the ground he had gained from his sudden attack. He was sure he could push further, but wiser senses prevailed making him retreat while he was still in the lead. Before he reached the door though, he found himself turning to find his brother in the same state. The short steps were swift to cool his tongue, and he offered, "You don't have to marry her."

"Get out of my sight," he snapped, proving himself still furious even as Ascanius' anger simmered away to pity.

His brother didn't have the heart to say anything else and left the man to his destruction.

‡‡‡

Eione drew Chara into her arms, smothering her full cheeks with kisses, and the little girl erupted into contagious giggles which only prompted her mother more. Her legs kicked, and her arms swung blindly with balled fists while Eione tickled at her sides.

Iliana laughed from the table where she nursed a fresh cup of water and warned, "Don't torture her, Eione!"

"Oh, she loves kisses from her mother," the woman assured her, swaying slightly with her daughter on her hip, and tucked Chara's blonde curls behind her ear. "And she's happy her aunt came. She's been sad without her father around to dote on her."

Iliana smiled sweetly and took her niece from Eione's arms. "I'm sure. Who else could she order about?"

"You would be surprised…" Eione murmured and tidied about the space while she had a rare moment with her hands free. Even in performing such a menial task, the woman had grace about her like a dancer with pointed wrists and a light gait. It was a characteristic which entranced the Alban men and made her a constant subject of women's gossip. Through the square, she would walk with perfect posture and her hips sashaying beneath the folds of her dress while her fair face turned boldly toward any that would look upon her. There was a magic to the manner in which she presented herself, slightly dipping her chin so that her feline eyes peered out from her face, and she enchanted or alienated all who met her. As testament to her beauty, she caught Ascanius' eye when she was only sixteen and had evaded his advances for the better of a year, making him court her in all manner of ways until she seemed bewitched herself. Now married with a beautiful baby girl, their romance was exemplary in Iliana's eyes. She often considered the pair when she faced her own solitude and searched for the secret to their happiness so that she might imitate it.

Chara tugged on a fistful of Iliana's dress, and her chestnut eyes fell to her niece, finding the little girl perturbed to be ignored. Smiling, she bounced the babe on her knees and bent to kiss her soft curls.

"Yes, she is very happy to have her aunt here!" Eione chirped as she sat down at last and gave her sister-in-law the full attention of her chocolate eyes.

"I was worried you two might be lonely without Ascanius."

"Of course," she agreed, "but sometimes it is good to miss him." To Iliana's perplexed expression, she smiled omnisciently. "You'll see when you have husband."

Iliana bowed her head once more to watch Chara chew happily on her fingers but had nothing to say on the matter, other than the milieu of thoughts she held on it, but it seemed too brash to spill her soul to Eione within moments of arriving inside the door –even if that had been her private purpose.

"Aeneas' birthday is around the corner!" Eione remembered and busied her hands with a morsel of stale bread. "I'd nearly forgotten. Have you begun planning?"

"Somewhat. We've been a bit preoccupied what with Umbria and the soldiers recovering from battle, but I think it will be a time for everyone to forget their worries if only for a night."

"Yes," she said and hurriedly swallowed to clear her throat. "There should be wine and a feast and music and decorations and dancing!" She flashed an excited grin and bent forward in her seat. "We all love our King. He deserves a festival –a celebration of his life!"

"He pretends he has no need for a celebration," Iliana divulged with a timid smile, "but it is all a charade. He would love nothing more."

"And he will have one to remember. Sera and I could help you cook, and we must speak with Iamus. He roasts the most spectacular pork you have ever tasted!" Her words flowed over Iliana in a steady stream until she could not make heads or tails of her sister's feverish ideas, almost being charged like orders upon the air. It was only when a certain name was spoken did her head bob up. "And Damian! Let us speak with him. Perhaps he could forge something exceptional. I'll admit I've been nursing this idea for Ascanius more than his father, but I think Aeneas is certainly deserving." Eione touched her lips as though blessing them before she shared her brilliance. "Envision a blade fit for a king, beautiful and magnificent, and on it we will engrave…" She drew a slow breath with her eyes scanning the air, but Iliana could not decide whether it was for effect or if Eione was searching for the words in that moment. Her captivating charade was abandoned all at once as the woman abruptly sunk into her seat and looked about the room with a frown to her fair brow. Sensing Iliana's confusion, she muttered demurely, "I'm sure I've taken note of it somewhere. It was artistry really… So perfect…"

She was on her feet to search out her poetic engraving even as Iliana assured her, "It is a wonderful thought, Eione, but I doubt Damian will have the time for such a thing. Father has him working on new weapons and armor for the soldiers."

"Oh I'm certain he can find the time for a present for his King," and Eione spun on her heel with her feline eyes flashing mischievously, "and if you ask…"

Iliana's cheeks warmed before she had the sense to withhold her flush, and so she hid her embarrassed features by looking to her niece yet again. It was always a mortifying reminder of how long this silent affair had gone on that others were aware of it as well. She feared it was only a matter of time before her brothers and father caught wind of it, and then they would forbid her from speaking to him before she ever had the chance to even do anything worthy of their scorn.

"Won't you Iliana?" Eione pressed as she sat down at the table and took her sister's hand.

"You should," Iliana assured her and smiled faintly. "You know men never say no to you."

"I'm a wife and a mother now," Eione commented to dismiss herself based on the immorality and was apparently oblivious to her own arrogance on the subject. Only upon further reflected did she hastily add, "And I know how you find him handsome. It's the perfect excuse to speak with him."

The younger woman shrugged listlessly and helped Chara climb onto her chest where the babe fought in her aunt's arms with restless anger. "If I have the courage to utter a word to him…"

"Bring some of that soup you make for your father," Eione encouraged while taking Chara away, and the little girl burst into tears without warning. "He'll be smitten," Eione promised over her daughter's squeals and reached for a bowl of mashed fruit in the center of the table. Though her face was still flushed with her cries, Chara was quick to quiet herself as she begun munching on the sweet fruit, and Iliana smiled and cleaned a stray piece away from her chubby cheek.

With all attentions focused on the babe, Iliana assumed the conversation finished until Eione's weary face considered her and appealed, "Won't you try for your father at least? It would please him so much."

And so her sister-in-law preyed on her fault: her inability to say that two-letter word to any request that might displease someone she cared about. Still smiling however falsely, Iliana nodded and tried not to imagine the effects of what she had just committed to.

‡‡‡

It was only when night broke across the sky and darkened the lands did the rain pause as if content to cease its siege now that the Apulians were confined by the onslaught of night and would not dare to leave their quarters. Still the heavens rumbled and flickered with the threat, no doubt to be resumed soon for the clouds were full and densely hid away the moon, and the air was cold and damp making the Apulians draw about their robes and worry over sickness so early in the season. For this reason, the servants had uncovered the Princess' heavier robes and allowed a few to air out during the day so that she might wear one tonight at dinner. Maybe they thought the denser fabrics would warm her chill mood, but she had barely the consciousness of mind to note the deep evergreen shade of fabric wrapped around her let alone spare a rare smile. The events of the day had heightened her peculiar nature until she seemed oblivious to all –even Cybele adjusting her favorite gown. It was so if only for the way it illuminated her features, evening her pale complexion, highlighting the tawny brown shades to her blonde hair, and most evident, providing a backdrop against which to study the different hues of her eyes. She loved this gown for while others might be more stylish and able to convey the desirable aspects about her –perhaps making her appear tanned or blonder- this one made her feel the most like herself, and it was unique for her to find beauty in her individuality.

"Princess," Desma said to catch her mistress' attention, and appropriately, Aurora turned to face the woman who offered a folded piece of fabric from her shaking hands. "This has arrived for you."

She accepted it, feeling a weight in its center that only confused her more, while she wondered distantly, "Who is it from?"

"Prince Haemon," Desma answered with her voice hitting a peak of feminine excitement that Aurora should have shared, but the Princess was too stunned to feel much of anything.

Her gaze turned uncertainly to her handmaiden, but Desma was fully enraptured in the mysterious gift in Aurora's palm. Pretending not to feel the shroud of all the servants' attentions on her, Aurora unwrapped the gift one delicate leaf of fabric at a time with each layer building the anticipation in the room until perfect stillness was achieved and the present was revealed. Two golden blossoms caught the candlelight and faced her where their delicately arching lips opened to strands of golden beads, interrupted at their ends by three glistening, swollen, beautiful pearls. There was a collective gasp amongst the women close enough to the Princess to see the gift with their own eyes, and whispers shattered the dense silence as the servants promptly described the earrings to those beside them or perhaps commented on the bizarre fact that the receiver had yet to say anything.

Never one seduced by opulent jewelry, Aurora found herself enraptured in its simple beauty so austere and so magnificent. No man had ever given her anything aside from her cousins and her uncle, but nothing with the intent to chase her heart. And how it betrayed her, beating erratically in her chest as though the Prince himself had arrived and handed it to her, but he had no need. She was as speechless without him to steal the remainder of her courage.

When her lips finally parted numb from their position flattened in a line, it was to ask, "Was there a message?"

"No, My Lady," Desma answered and wrung uneasily at her kerchief, undoubtedly fretting that she had neglected to ask. "Lord Solon delivered it. Perhaps he meant to say something-"

"I'm sure if he meant to say something, he would have," Aurora commented curtly and handed the earrings to her handmaiden once more. How could this man whose gaze looked so roughly upon her at once charm and repulse her? Her eyelashes fluttered uncertainly, and she turned to her reflection in the mirror, finding her unusual eyes and seeing the fascination in them. She promptly closed them to banish the disloyal thoughts from her mind. She had no time to be wooed –least of all by _him_.

"They suit you perfectly," Desma commented, and when Aurora dared to find her reflection again, she saw her handmaiden dangling one of the beautiful pieces beside her face to compare. Her hair seemed a bit more golden with the metal beside it and her skin the more lustrous to match the pearls. Aurora pushed Desma's hand away before she thought any more of it. It was dangerous to pretend he thought of her beyond the title attached to her name and the vessel she could be for his heir for that was all she could offer him.

"You know I have no taste for jewelry," she muttered.

Her handmaiden appeared perplexed while she stared at the Princess through the mirror. "It is a gift," she said slowly as though spelling out the words might impact her mistress in any way.

"I'm aware of that, Desma."

"It would be an insult to the Prince not to wear them…" she added with the anxiety creeping into her quivering tone as she noticed more and more Aurora's persistence not to acknowledge the earrings.

"If he is so petty," Aurora said and feigned a strength that was fleeing her as she spoke, "I have no need for his gifts." The women around her were stiff, bearing witness to their Princess' rude tongue and brash decision. Their accusing eyes unnerved her and yet spurred her to continue, and she swiftly decided, "I'd like my hair up tonight."

Desma tucked her kerchief into her dress and stepped forward uncertainly. "You're sure, My Lady?"

"Yes. I want to show my neck. The Queen has always commented it is a pretty one…"

When she entered the dining hall later in the evening, her hair swept away from her to reveal the line of her neck, her jaw, and most purposefully her bare ears. She intended to convey her own silent message to the Prince: to leave her be. She had no use for his expensive jewels; she had no use for his courtship; and most of all she had no use for him. She could see his crown of chestnut curls peeking above the crowd given his tall stature, and even facing the wall of his back her courage seeped through her feet and into the floor. Her heart was a hammer in her chest, and for the faintest second, she considered turning to Desma who had hidden the earrings in her kerchief with the vain hope her mistress would need them during the night. But it was too late. People began to take notice of her arrival, and even if she stood in place without daring to approach him, it would not be long before he heard she had come. With the inevitability to bolster her, she decided to pretend the decision was still in her control when her feet guided her through the crowd of her adopted family, councilmen, and prestigious officials. Their gazes turned to acknowledge her progress, but her own was latched onto his back fearing he would sense her and turn before she finished her approach and spoil the surprise.

_What surprise?_ her mind hissed at her as though a parent scolding a sullen child. _That you are dismissing the sole man who has shown interest in you –who could be a good man –who could steal you away from these dead walls? _She balled her hands to still their shaking and held her head higher while her restless thoughts decided, _The only surprise is you!_

"Princess," his brother discovered her first, and she was startled by his salutation given her inner dialogue and guilty fixation on Haemon who turned as well to see her. She had been distracted to the point that she felt herself more ambushed than them, somehow managing to spin this entire situation around on herself, and she felt her face flushing as she looked from Prince Ascanius to Ambassador Solon and finally to him. Each man bridled his distaste finding the insult readily available in her appearance, and she had not been prepared to see how his eyes hardened into a permanent scowl that was as anchored in her as hers had been in him moments before. For the whole of dinner, she could not rise to meet those eyes and the judgement in them for their black depths left her too intimidated and too embarrassed to remember why she ever did such a foolish thing.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hi lovelies! A bit of a delay with this one, but you know how it goes. So the plot thickens, and I have a surprise in the next chapter that I am _so_ excited about! :)

Thank you to klandgraf2007 and AmyLNelson for the super sweet reviews!

klandgraf: I know Iliana is sort of my typical shy, naive, sweet, young girl which is oddly a character I don't usually write, so she's fun in that aspect. I think we can all relate to her a little bit, and next chapter she'll have to go see Damian (lets see if she trips and fall into his crotch -just kidding!) :) Yea and then Haemon's my bull in a china closet haha Cause I can't ever have normal characters, but like you said, it was the only way I could see him growing up. He's going to heal through the rest of the story and find his own peace in the most unlikely way possible ;) Ah! I'm so happy you like the other siblings too! I was worried they would seem unacknowledged, and we were discussing this before, I wanted to be sure they each had their own voice. Nereus is one of my favorite ones too because he's probably the most mature haha I want to do another scene with him and his wife because I see them very clearly in my head. Ascanius is definitely the sibling who's there to give you hell or back you up, and Ariston is just an impulsive, wild ass who's kinda endearing in that respect haha Oh I like rambling obviously :) I really appreciate the review, and I'm so happy you're enjoying it thus far. Hopefully you like this chapter too! xoxo

Amy: Ahh you always get inside my head and see where I'm going ;) Definitely two completely different love stories going on, and they're both going to hit a very unexpected bump in the next chapter hehe I'm glad you liked the mentions of Hector and Myrina. Honestly, there will be much more discussion of them as this continues. You know how I always have like a thousand different things going on, and I have to take my time in placing them all just perfectly so that they all work. I'm always worried my first chapters are so boring because nothing happens in them. They're just like suspense for what's to come haha Ah, anyway hopefully you are still liking where this is going and curious about what I've got in store next. Thanks so much for the review :) xoxo


	4. Whispers In the Dark

Chapter 4  
"Whispers In the Dark"

The unkindled flames licked forth from the deep pit, swallowing whole the logs mounted inside it, and grasping for fresh air to feed its growing hunger. A servant busied about its perimeter with an iron in his grip and sought to restrain the fire from rising too high into the King's chambers. It seemed to multiply under his prodding almost lashing toward the man who tried to restrain it. The servant rushed to control it, striking deep into the pit to ebb the logs, and all at once he hissed like a wounded animal while the iron fell with a dull clatter onto the stone floor.

"Out!" Galen grunted and tore at the man's tunic. "Out with you, you idiot!" The servant scarcely had time to bend and pick up the iron before Galen's heel collided with his backside, sending the man onto his face and adding insult to injury. Like a beaten dog, he scrambled to his feet and left the room as discreetly as he could, abandoning his pride to the floor behind him.

In his place, a sole guard stepped forward where the fierce flames illuminated his youthful features, thick blonde curls to match the heaviness of his beard, and between both his pale blue eyes didn't dare to probe beyond the fire's reach where the King sat upon his throne with his furs and rich robes spilling over the arms and from the base to support his sandaled feet. For a moment only the fire spoke in crackling bursts like the embers tossed onto the floor and later to be swept up by yet another beaten dog of a man.

The King sat too deeply within his chair for the unbridled fire's light to reach him, though the guard was still too terrified to lift his eyes and take notice, and his voice snaked from the shaded face which housed it, "You are Esai, son of Castor."

"Yes, My King," he responded in one breath, then sucking in another to keep pace with his erratic heartbeat.

"Galen has told me of you. He says you bring news of great interest to me."

Here, Esai searched his feet uncertain whether to say what was and was not of interest to the King, and he fretted over his own silence. Before he could lift his tongue, there was a rustling of fabrics, and Esai stiffened and glanced toward the throne fearing that his ignorance had caused Savas to abandon his station. But the King had merely shifted forward in his seat, and now past the grasp of darkness, Esai sustained his icy blue gaze for a fleeting second before looking at his feet once more.

Savas smiled, the shadows sinking into the corners of his thin lips, and he observed the guard's agitation with the pleasure of a connoisseur of fear. The King bent even further bracing himself with his hands gripping the arms of his chair and seeming to pierce the thin skin of this man and gaze into the very workings of his soul. Loyalty was such a rare quality, and he had long learned to sniff out the treacherous. "Two nights ago you were called to my niece's chambers. Why?"

"The Princess called on me… She asked about my father," he answered unsteadily and bit his tongue shortly after speaking to damn it. It would lead him to sure death.

"Your father was a guard to my father, King Gallad, was he not?"

"Yes, My Lord."

"And he died protecting my brother."

"Yes."

Savas eased into the plush embrace of his seat, leaving his powerful eyes to reach through the darkness and keep watch for lies. Massaging his fingers into the stone engravings of his seat, he prompted, "Continue."

"My Lord, I-" Esai shuddered and dared to peek through the flames at his King once more shaded from his view, but the shadows surrounding him teemed with Savas' power. "I would never betray you."

"I know," Savas answered coolly, and the guard's body visibly relaxed. "If you had… you would take your own life before facing me, knowing what I do with traitors." Without the slightest movement, Esai's stance was rigid and fearful once more, but Savas was too bitter to enjoy his influence now. "Tell me everything, and perhaps I will feel merciful."

Esai swallowed, and his tongue seemed to dissolve with it. For the time, he could do nothing but stare at the heaving fire and the edging darkness beyond it sensing the evil that he had unwittingly committed to.

"Speak!" Savas barked out, and Esai tensed at the reverberation of his master's powerful voice.

"She called me to her quarters," he began again, stammering as his body released its grip to allow him the room for breath, and before his eyes, he saw the heavy green and black tapestries draped from her walls to draw away the chill, the glittering of bronze basins scattered along the walls, the silent maidens tending to her room while she sat at her window gazing out across the expanse…

_Hearing the shuffled footsteps intermittent along the stone floors and rugs and consequent announcement of his arrival, the Princess stood from her post and chanced a closer peek at the man she called to her now. _

_Only after a thorough sweep of her odd eyes did she wonder, "You are Castor's son?"_

_ "Yes, My Lady," he responded and didn't neglect the opportunity to bow his head deeper toward his chest._

_ "Your father was among the royal guards assigned to my grandfather, Gallad..."_

_ Esai was silent waiting for the incline of her voice or end of her statement to be sure whether she was in fact expecting a response from him, but like her pale features guarded in their vacancy, there was no hint at her natural expression in her tone as though she considered him with the preserving regard of a barren soul. Unconsciously the hairs pricked to life on the base of his neck, and he recalled tales of the evil spirits that haunted her. _How deep does her gaze reach?_ he wondered._

_ "He was later called to guard my father," she continued after the dejected pause, and he was not entirely sure she was dumb to his thoughts. "Did your father tell you why?"_

_ The personal nature of the question confused him coupled with her stoic voice, neither embarrassed nor nervous, and he paused at her sudden audacity. "Yes."_

_ Again, the presence of silence, the weight of her gaze, both expectant though neither intelligible…_

_ "Are you mute?" she asked curtly, and at last some emotion stained her words._

_ "Forgive me," he responded as soon as he had the breath to form the words. "I've been trained to remain unseen –not to converse with a woman of your status."_

_ His honesty appeared to unnerve her for she turned away and approached the window where the rain fell without cease. With her attention distracted, he dared to look at her trying to read her purpose in the intensity with which she carried out her simple task. What did she see?_

_ "'Trained to remain unseen,'" she repeated and adjusted the edges of her robe, but truly she seemed to be righting the words in her mind. Remembering his company, she glanced over her shoulder and prompted, "Recount to me what your father told you."_

_ Esai looked away once more too wary to be sure how he should behave, and so he obeyed, "He said there was word of an attack-"_

_ "Rumors," she corrected._

_ Once more he was disoriented by her addition, and he followed the length of silence until he assumed he was to continue. "Rumors of an attack," he attempted more cautiously almost peeking out at her from the corners of his eyes to see if this pleased her, but she was gazing out the window yet again leaving him blind and dumb. "Possibly the Samnites planning a strike. King Gallad thought it wise to guard his heirs and divided the number of men protecting him."_

_ "And your father was sent to protect the Crown Prince," she finished, leaving Esai to nip at the unspoken words for he sensed them but was too blind to see them._

_ "Yes," he muttered uneasily._

_ "He died that night."_

_ "Yes."_

_ "What quality of man was your father?" she inquired then twisting to face him and pin him with her fierce eyes. They assaulted him unexpectedly in one fell glance, and he searched his memory for the insult he had unwittingly given her to cause such a look._

_ "He taught me all I know," Esai answered. "He was a good man."_

_ Briefly, her attention flickered across his face perhaps looking for the tail of his lie and slightly surprised to see none. "I suppose all children will see the good in those who bore them."_

_ He frowned before he had the sense to stop himself, and as soon as his conscious mind could command it he hid the slighted look by turning to his feet._

_ She remained still withholding her breath much like her words, and then abruptly she decided, "That is all."_

"Nothing more was said, and I left," Esai finished.

The end of his impromptu story lingered, but he could feel the King's tense agitation like the untamed flames shifting and burning the air near him.

"Do you have a son?" Savas wondered at last, proving he bore the same ability to confuse the guard as his niece, and similarly the exhausted man required a beat to decipher the intimate nature.

"No, My Lord."

"Pity… There will be none to carry your name."

No sooner had the words been spoken than hands gripped Esai's arms, and the man reacted on instinct for his thoughts were lethargic and tore away from the guards swooping down on him. His fight was delayed wrapped up in his mind and terror, and he was too concerned with his fists to see the hilt aimed for his temple. His body slumped, and each guard took one of his arms carrying him from the King's quarters while the man's limp feet dragged behind him smearing the blood dripping from his head into the plush rugs. Without command, two servants rushed to clean at the rugs and floor and wipe away the evidence that this man ever existed.

All this Savas watched from his dark chair, cultivating the shadows which lingered about him and twisting the ruby ring on his finger while he thought.

"Long ago I foresaw this day…"

Galen replaced Esai's position beside the fire pit and promised his king, "The matter will be handled discretely."

"_Discretely_," Savas hissed then finding the rush of anger to propel him from his seat and toward his advisor. "Silencing his voice does not fix the problem!"

"The Princess will be engaged within the week. She'll be of no concern when she is in Latium-"

"Filling the Prince's head with her stories! Look how they delay!"

"I've spoken with Solon," Galen continued attempting to appease Savas' growing rage, but like the fire, it proved wild and untamable. "He assures us the engagement will continue, but the Princes don't wish to look too eager."

"No," Savas growled under his breath, throwing his cape from his way and pacing beside the roaring fire then lighting the fury of his features splayed and cavernous. "There is treachery at play."

"My Lord, no one would dare to betray you."

"No one but that little wench!" he grunted the threat then assailing him until the whites of his eyes flashed at Galen, and as swiftly as the breath of air fed his fire did the sparks diminish into a simmering face of vexation. "I knew when she emerged from the woods what legacy she carried."

His pale blue eyes pierced Galen with accusation unraveling the memory of that day before them both and stabbing at the insult he found in it. Balking unconsciously, the counselor felt the sweat gathering in the aged lines of his brown, and he answered softly, "She was a child."

"Children appear sweet and innocent until they wield the hand which strikes you down!"

"She couldn't-"

"Silence!" he snapped, and the air sucked from the room upon one command. The rough rustle of his feet pacing once more only challenged the tension, and Galen sensed his impotence swelling as though a pest squashed beneath his lord's heel. "How does my niece find our guests?"

"She…" His leaden tongue was slow to awaken, and steadily Galen answered, "She has not been agreeable. Solon mentioned that she has denied the Prince's affections on several occasions."

Savas smirked, exhaling shortly through his nose, and chuckled beneath his breath. "So stubborn and blind to her escape." Rather than aggravating him, this news appeared to have a pleasant effect on the King giving a fresh sheen to his icy eyes. "She will be similarly willful against marriage."

"I cannot say…"

His smirk shifted to an awry smile shared more with himself than Galen, and the counselor feared what command would follow such a darkly indulgent look. Abandoning his nervous feet, he found solace in the rich seat and relaxed purposefully across one arm. "What a shame it would be," he mused and drummed his fleshy fingers along the smooth stone, "if in her despair… she took her own life."

‡‡‡

Heat blanketed the narrow room drawing small pools in the nape of her neck and small of her beck. Absently, Iliana gathered the thick curls into her palms and heaved them onto the crown of her head while pursing her lips and blowing a steady stream of air beneath the neck of her dress to confront the beads sliding down her belly. Summer was reluctant to wane and heaved its final exertion before it could gracefully dip away and yield to cooler temperatures, but for the moment its spell compounded with the persistent fire in the kitchen to overwhelm the space. Atop its orange crest the soup warmed, though tasting the sweat on her lip, she realized how foolish it was to bother with temperature. How could any find a warm meal appetizing on so sultry a day?

Impulsive with nerves, she took the large bowl, spooned the soup within it, and worried over the proportion of vegetables to broth before seeming pleased. Waves of steam snaked from its surface at once promising and making her thirst for cool water from the mere sight. Rather, she draped a piece of clean cloth over the top and was eager to leave the oppression of the kitchen for the open air outside the home. A slight breeze called from the sea, and she welcomed its brush against her damp skin, closing her eyes for the moment to indulge fully in its touch. Her dress shifted like her heavy hair, and she relaxed as she opened her eyes to search the streets of Alba Longa. The agitation of battle waned as those oblivious peasants carried about their work, seduced by the high sun and healing wounds. Offerings were made to the Temple of Zeus east of the Alban Hills where Aeneas had founded the site upon his arrival in these lands, proving himself more mortal than divine and capable of humility enough to pray for salvation –if not for his sake, than that of his children. It was a beacon of Alban tenacity and preservation, and through the peace emanating from its sacred ground, they felt safe.

Her chestnut eyes cast toward the hillside rising away from the sea and carrying the endless greenery upon their arched backs, and their strength infected her with the sense of a greater purpose at its base. Guided by her timid thoughts, she dared to glance at the forge which was his home and knew where her feet would take her. Still, they were a bit clumsy beneath her as the edges of her sandal caught a protruding rock, and she nearly stumbled onto her knees. The soup heaved within its bowl, slipping past the edge to burn her fingers, and she bit her lip feeling the burn in her hand and foot to remind her of her lack of grace as though she could ever forget. Once righted, she drew a steadying breath to firm her shoulders and fill her chest, and she continued her advance.

Dipping inside the threshold where the crooked wooden door was opened to its fullest reach and restrained by a mutilated helmet at its base, the forge was sticky with heat despite Damian's attempts to air out the interior. Straw mixed with the dirt floor stained black from the ashes that hung in the air burnt and bitter to her tongue. She blinked at the heat reverberating from the huge pit built upon stones, though its intensity smoldered on the brink of dying out, but its handler was preoccupied shaping the edge of a blade on another stone nearby. As her gaze centered on the curve of his hunched back, his body concave and wholly engrossed in his work, her confidence wavered much like the nervous shaking of her hands barely able to keep their hold on the bowl. The bronze blade cried with every strike, and its voice hammered into her chest, making her wince at each blow. Still, her chestnut eyes were pinned in the expanse of his back where the plain vest strained against his posture, and she could faintly see the two peaks of his shoulder blades protruding beneath. The knotted black curls were matted with sweat at the base of his neck though a few stubborn coils sprung out from the heat, his tan skin shone in the faint light, and she found her tongue dry and heavy with the sight and her silence.

Her sandals scratched along the straw and caught on the edge of a spear, then falling and clattering onto the floor. She jerked nervously and through her blinking found herself staring down the length of his half-finished blade to his features similarly cut with suspicion as rough and unfinished as the sword in his hand. The dark orbs relaxed abruptly upon encountering her shocked expression, and he retracted the blade and turned the hilt in his hand, resting the smooth edge against his forearm and pointing up to the heavens.

She blanched, lips ajar, eyes searching for the proper words when he spoke, "Forgive me… I didn't hear you."

Her brow fretted uncertainly as she realized his mistake, thinking she had announced herself and he had been too engrossed in his work to notice when she was all the more guilty and foolish, but she hadn't the heart to correct him. "No harm," she assured him weakly and then noticed as the numb surprise seeped from her skin that both her hands were burning for even more soup had slipped over the edge of the bowl and singed her fingers. Ignoring the pain radiating up her palms, she forced a small smile. "I should know better than to approach a distracted man."

He bent to pick up the fallen spear and return it to the growing pile lined up along one wall and returned the unfinished blade to its stone. All this he accomplished while her nervous gaze followed his every movement, and at last, he turned to her once more and awaited some explanation for her appearance in his home.

She was surrounded by weapons to fill their armory but utterly unarmed. Her smile waned, and she turned her face away, unaccustomed to studying him so openly, so long, and instead considered the blades and spears and axes scattered about. "I did not mean to interrupt your work. I know how busy you have been, and I can see all that you've accomplished in so short a time."

Rather than reviewing the fruits of his labor, his attention remained fixed on her perhaps the better interested contemplating the image of her inside his walls sharing more words than they had spoken since his arrival, and she wondered how well she hid her nerves. The heated air fed the tension like wind to an open flame, and it assaulted her with a bevy of vigor like the sweat beading along her skin and sliding down her belly that seemed more the provocative touch of his eyes examining her.

"Usually your father sends one of your brothers," he commented in a raspy voice that was victim to the weight of the ashes and perhaps singed eternally from them.

"He didn't send me," she responded swiftly and then flushed at the admission for she could see the implications flood his eyes. All the products of her nightly creativity then drawn into the depths as dark as onyx and illuminating her innocence, making her shy at one look, but she feigned her strength like a weakened animal trying to keep a predator from swooping on her. "I have a favor to ask of you."

The curious frown cluttered his features for a moment, and he appeared to group her nervous energy, unwarranted appearance, and current lack of a reason into his own estimations. The potent look remained seated in his eyes as he wondered, "What could you need of me?"

The ashes scratched her throat, and she swallowed to clear it though they made her sound almost stern as she answered him, "I need your skills."

At once his interest waned like the softening of his stature when he nodded curtly. "Of course, My Lady."

Only his abrupt retreat made her aware of her tone and furthermore the dual lines of conversation unfolding, and her cheeks felt feverish stealing the blood away from her sprinting heart. "I brought you some soup," she muttered before the silence lingered too long, but still the tension remained. "I can tell by the smoke the hours you keep. I imagine you scarcely have time to eat let alone prepare a meal."

"Thank you." He reached to take the bowl from her, and she swiftly drew away the now damp rag embarrassed how its stained color betrayed her. He led them toward a small table where he pushed aside the various articles to make room for the both of them and offered her a seat.

A smile darted across her features, and she sat down too quickly and folded her hands in her lap, drawing up her spine and flattening her shoulders like her mother had done. She felt stronger merely by imitating such a woman who had been a goddess to her childish eyes. The same ones followed him as he found a spoon, polished it on the edge of his vest while his back was turned so that she wouldn't notice the extent of the ash's touch, and sat across from her to take a spoonful of his meal. Before he could comment on the taste, he scooped another into his mouth, and she found her answer well enough in his eagerness. Though the silence pervaded, her thoughts challenged it, brushing up against its edge to reflect on how little she knew about this man whose proximity left her palms clammy. With the milieu of subjects and possibilities stretching out before her, she found herself reticent to speak. Silence had been their habit for so long. It felt impossible to break, and yet she feared even more the shame of failing before she tried.

"Was your father a blacksmith?" she spoke up, and the question hit the air like an arrow to a tree's trunk, blunt and abrupt.

His brows pinched above his eyes, angling them where she could better see the lines of soot caught in the small wrinkles at the edges. In fact the ashes sunk into every crevice of his face though the sweat washed the rest away, and so close, she could suddenly see past the vision she had embedded of him in her mind to realize the intricacies of the man beneath. For one, she discovered he was older than she had thought, and that heightened her sense of naivety, making her suspicious that this game among them was wholly of her imagination and his participation had been a figment of her inexperienced desires. How easy it was to pin her thoughts to the outsider of their community, more friendly toward his walls than his neighbors, but she had found his privacy fodder to her curiosity.

"Yes," he answered before taking another large bite.

"It's no wonder, then, where your talent comes from." Again, the false smile she implanted on her face when she was nervous. He continued eating: testament to his modesty or hunger, she couldn't decide. "We're fortunate you've come here."

"It is fortunate I was welcomed."

"Alba Longa has always been more than a city," she said proudly. "It's a home to those who seek it."

He nodded his agreement and stirred around the vegetables in his bowl without purpose as though the topic opened a void in his attention, and she was drawn to understand his silence.

"Why did you come here?"

His spoon stilled, and he straightened atop the small bench housing him to square off his body and face her. The ease with which he confronted her like a soldier lining up for battle was daunting. She had always thought his muteness and his averted attention was shyness as was hers, but now she realized it was driven by something else entirely. "Alba Longa is a home to those who seek it," he repeated evenly. "It is a home to wanderers… I left my tale when I left my lands."

Unnerved by his sincerity, she turned to her folded hands which appeared a charade much like this affair she had built between them and that was now unraveling before her eyes. "I meant no disrespect."

"I know," he commented in a lower tone and set his spoon aside. "I scare you. I don't mean to."

"No," she said sharply and glanced up once more to see an aged look of resignation awaiting her. Her posture melted with her awareness of how poorly she had executed this meeting. "I," she paused and laughed lightly at her foolishness. "I rarely speak to men other than my brothers or my father because of my brothers and my father… Evidently, I have no talent for it." She muttered the last line to her nervous fingers a bit scornfully and bitterly before she righted herself. "I did visit you to ask for you help."

"Yes," he recalled and rested his elbows on the table to support the weight of his shoulders, "but you've yet to tell me why."

Prodding at her inadequacy further stripped away her confidence, and she found herself speaking the more easily because there was no reason bothering anymore. "I have a dilemma," she said and looked to his dark eyes which were patiently mirroring her own expression. "My father continues to grow older, and with every year, I'm running out of gifts to give him. I've outgrown the novelty of little trinkets and favors. So I've come to you with a very unorganized and impulsive plan, and I hoped you could make sense of my ideas and forge a blade worthy of a king –worthy of a father."

Her scheme was in play, but it did not unfold in the manner she had expected. Still, their eyes caught across the short space, and neither turned away. At length, he said, "My time is scarce. Your father has me forging weapons for his army day and night, and a blade of that magnitude will take the bulk of my concentration."

"Yes," she agreed though lost for what he was truly saying. Realizing her omission, she quickly assured him, "I will pay you-"

"I will do this for you," he said, emphasizing the final two words, and he reveled for a moment in how enraptured she was with his honesty, "but you must do something for me."

Paralyzed by a rush of happiness, she offered, "I will help if I can, but I don't know what I could possibly do."

The edges of his ash-stained lips curved in a frank smile that dared her and sent her heart into a crescendo, but his fingers nudged the bowl in front of him, making a loud scratching sound against the grain of the wood. Her face paled as she realized her mistake, and she exhaled her humiliation.

"Food," she understood dryly.

"You were right to say I don't have time to prepare a meal," he spoke with no inclination whether he understood her flushed cheeks or not. "I need no payment. Your father has given me more than enough. What I need is a hot meal every now and again."

"It is a fair trade." Iliana wet her lips as she considered the proposition, but truthfully there was no possibility she would deny this arrangement. She had consented the moment she stepped outside of her home with the bowl of soup in her hands. "This must be in secret, you understand," she continued a moment later and uncomfortably glimpsed at him. "I don't want to ruin the surprise. I can make larger portions when I cook for my father and brother without them being the wiser and bring however much I can to you while they're preoccupied."

The smile settled into his features while he wondered at the timid sincerity in her gaze, too sweet to seem real and yet it was. "We have a deal."

They parted moments later, treading across the steadier ground beneath them, and Iliana faced the afternoon sun outside his home with a smile fixed upon her face.

‡‡‡

Three was the end of this game of power amongst them. After three insulting nights facing her arrogant denial of his gifts, both his patience and determination were worn to the bone leaving him seething at even the slightest mention of her name or the affront she provided to his pride. Where he had been reluctant and unconcerned, the Princess managed to attract his undivided attention in one fell attempt, then hammered in thrice progressively driving the insult deeper and deeper into his skull. It was unavoidable. She called upon this torrent of anger spurred by the injury to his honor, and he did not doubt her cunning purpose and blatant audacity to face him so boldly. He fell back on the conversations he had shared with Ascanius and Solon days ago when they speculated about her motivations, and he was assured he understood the reason she would not acknowledge his interest. Repeatedly, his thoughts returned to the huntsman. Whether his competition or a handler to this conspiracy, Haemon would find out the truth with his words, his power, and his blade –if necessary.

Ascanius sat in one of the chairs behind the table where Haemon handled his affairs and watched his brother standing at the fire's edge and staring into the belly of the flames. He held nothing but dissent for this course of action, but he understood how Haemon searched for an appropriate object for his anger. He could not strike down a Princess, and so a huntsman seemed a better sport. Ascanius only offered his presence to bear witness to whatever passed between the two, so that he might stop his brother if needed or speak on his behalf were this engagement to end turbulently. He hoped Haemon would be satisfied with answers and not require blood to pay the toll to his ego.

At that moment, the doors parted while a servant announced, "Atlan, son of Borus, King Savas' huntsman," and both Princes looked to the man who entered.

Like the people of his country, Atlan had the height of a titan, build of a fighter, and pale complexion of a man who had spent his life in the shadows of the dark Apulian forest. Beneath his pale, thick brows, his blue eyes cut from his features looking brazenly upon the two royal men before he bowed his head and said, "My Lords… You called for me."

While Ascanius remained seated, a diligent observer to any end, his brother circled the edge of the fire pit and drew closer to the huntsman who embodied all that the Crown Prince had not anticipated. From his eyes' edges, lines fanned across his temple and down to his thin cheeks. A straight nose severed the two halves of his features, a severe interruption to the whole image, and deep crevices arched away from his nostrils and buried into his blond beard, the weight of which made the base of his face heavier and bulkier like a jaw meant to endure the blows life dealt him.

"The King's hunter," Haemon commented and continued his thorough examination of the man brought to him. "I didn't expect you to be so grey."

Rather than offended, Atlan smiled and sustained Haemon's concentration. "I'm not as swift or strong as I once was, but age has made me patient and a better hunter."

"How long have you been in the service of the King?"

"Fifteen years, My Lord."

The Prince's intrigue grew, sensing the underlying cause but willing to play his ignorance for the time. "That is not so long for a man of your age."

"I've hunted since I was old enough to carry a dagger and follow my father into the forest," Atlan said in a way that seemed evasive but without apology.

"From a peasant to a king's servant. How did you come to your current station?"

Though the Prince maintained his vacant façade, Atlan paused with a subtle narrowing to his eyes as though sensitive to the ground they were treading, and Haemon knew at once that he had followed the proper lead. "It was a reward," the huntsman answered at length, "for finding the Princess."

"Explain."

Atlan lifted his head slightly seeming to face off the challenge set before him and growing more agitated with the topic. "Surely you've heard of Lycaon's death, My Lord." Haemon idly crossed his arms over his broad chest and motioned with one hand for Atlan to continue though such a course clearly aggravated the man. "In the middle of the night, he and his family were murdered. His wife. His two sons. His eldest daughter. They burned the house with their bodies inside and destroyed any evidence to involve them… Lycaon's youngest child, the Princess, was the only to escape. She hid in the forest without food, without water, victim to the cold of night and predators in the woods. I found her after three days while tracking. Another night alone, and she might have died and joined her family in Hades." Atlan exhaled through his nose and stared squarely into the Prince's eyes. "But you already knew that."

Here, one corner of Haemon's lips edged into a sardonic smile, and he confessed, "I've heard tales, but few will speak of the past."

"We do not speak of our dead," he explained and lifted his wrinkled brow, "and most think that night cursed."

The other corner joined his smile to bring to full fruition although it appeared more calculated than sincere, and he idly ran his thumb along the grain of his bread, patient as a man who already deduced what he would from his company and their conversation. "She must be indebted to you –her savior."

Subtly, Atlan's gaze solidified finding its hold in the Prince's and sensing the edge to his tone and insulted by any insinuation about Aurora even he did not yet understand it. Regardless, Haemon made no effort to hide his fishing expedition, and the older man had no desire to be toyed with. "I would better answer your questions were they voiced."

"You're bold for a huntsman," he observed, the smile becoming static and tense on his face. "I know the Princess came to your home the day after my arrival."

His chestnut eyes caught every twitch and falter of his expression, noting it in his mind and assuming it guilt, and Atlan accepted this news with as much tact as he could manage which manifested as him subtly bowing his chin. His following silence was a confirmation of this fact and an unwillingness to implicate himself farther.

"You may be a common man, but you are not a fool. You know what this means."

Atlan straightened his neck again, returning Haemon's gaze with his features stripped of expression and defensive in that respect.

"Silence won't help you," he said, his smile falling now as the annoyance tainted his voice, and he frowned in disgust to see how deeply this betrayal against him went. "It is better you confess your involvement in this affair." He remained purposefully vague with the hope Atlan might mistake the extent of his knowledge and admit to whatever his role was.

"I've not denied that she visited me," Atlan returned evenly.

"That is all you have to say?" he challenged with eyes flashing dangerously. "Perhaps you would be more agreeable toward your king…"

"Our relationship is no secret."

So the man finally took his bait, and Haemon smirked and ignored the blade to his pride, simultaneously content to know he was correct and insulted to have been deceived and underestimated. If what the man said is true, he doubted Savas ever thought they would uncover this illicit affair, and he sensed his brother drawing to his feet at this news and turned to consider him. "Savas has betrayed our trust. Evidently his niece is not as pure as he claims."

Ascanius' frown could not bear deeper into the lines of his handsome face.

"You misunderstand, Prince," Atlan spoke up and drew the Princes' attentions yet again.

Incredulous, Haemon scowled heavily that the man would now try to retract his words as if they were so dimwitted. "Did you not admit to a relationship with the Princess?"

"Not a romantic one," he answered earnestly and almost appeared disgusted by the implication. "She is an orphan, and I am a father to her."

Here Haemon snorted in disbelief and shook his head. "Above her uncle?"

Atlan's lips flattened into grimace, and his private gaze glanced from Haemon to Ascanius standing behind him. "You've been fooled by his act."

"No more than yours," Haemon charged frankly.

"I'm the only in the palace who will speak truthfully to you."

"A lofty accusation, huntsman."

"I understand your suspicion," he said and sustained Haemon's aggravated gaze, "but I have no motivation to lie."

"Other than to secure your place at her side or to trick me into marrying her. Whether you are a conspirator or her lover, you have every reason to lie to me."

"No," he answered for he would not allow his reputation and that of the Princess to be tarnished by such foul words. "She is Lycaon's heir, and she is pure. She only came to me to seek advice –nothing more."

"I'm done with your games!" Haemon growled beneath his breath and turned from the man, striding toward his brother with the intent to send word to his father that they would return within the fortnight.

"What advice?" Ascanius asked despite Haemon's bitter glare to end this subject before they fell too deep into the tangle of lies.

"She's troubled by your presence here," Atlan answered loudly to be sure his words met their mark, the Prince resolved to ignore him. "You've noticed her peculiarities, haven't you?"

Neither man answered, and in that silence was response enough.

To quote the young woman that he had seen days ago, he explained, "She is twenty-six, an orphan, and a virgin… Her uncle has only adopted his station as her guardian now that he sees some advantage to his benefit. For years she has been neglected and overlooked in every manner and decided she was past a marriageable age." His words resonated honestly, and though Haemon remained with his back to the man, he was still with his profile offered to the man. "The King did not tell her he sought to arrange a marriage."

"For a woman so ignorant to these negotiations, she seems persistent to deny my brother's interest," Ascanius spoke up, and Haemon's fury turned on his brother to have his humiliations shared with this man.

All at once, Atlan understood the reason he had been called, and his broad stature eased at this news. "Understand," he appealed. "She is inexperienced and frightened."

Haemon couldn't hold his tongue as he spun to face the hunter and accused, "A frightened woman does not insult a man by refusing his gifts."

"I did not say she wasn't stubborn," he admitted, "but you can see it is an act."

To this, both Princes could surmise their own inferences, and in his mind, Haemon pictured the tense evenings spent at dinner, her unadorned neck and ears an abasement to him but her eyes too weak and timid to deliver the insult to his face. Despite himself, he listened the more intently if only for an explanation that would ease his bruised pride of the insult which confronted it each night.

"You still suspect me," Atlan said and nodded as if surrendered to this fact. "But I will tell you the secret to her, and you'll know then that I've spoken the truth." His blue eyes focused solely on Haemon, and he surveyed the proud Prince for a time before revealing, "She's not a woman who will you let woo her, so don't give her the choice. Face her, and she won't deny you."

‡‡‡

The weight of his eyes haunted her long after she abandoned the dining hall and strode through the corridors to the escape offered by her private quarters. Where his fury had made him oblivious to her, his attention returned with renewed vigor in the loud way with which he addressed her by name and cornered her with those dark eyes, leaving her no room to avoid him. She felt panicked by the trap of his abrupt hunt for it gave her no space to retreat or advance, and so she sat at dinner across from this man who did not hesitate to challenge her. They shared such a limited exchange, but it seemed a betrayal to her decided indifference toward him.

_"Aurora," he spoke up and caught her in the net of his attention, "how do you find the rains?"_

_ Staring at her plate, she felt the weight of his eyes without the need to straighten her neck and face him, and glancing sidelong down the table, she recognized how others around them silenced to hear what she would say. There was no avoiding it, and none hurried to answer the Prince for his sole concentration was her. Unnerved by this new tactic, she was reluctant to lift her eyes and look at him, smirking as content and satisfied as he had been the first night they met, and similarly, she was shamed by his audacity. _

"_An impediment to your visit," she revealed slowly, her own voice soft where his had been bold. "It is a pity you can't see the beauty of our lands."_

"_But this is part of your beauty, isn't it?" His eyes shone, and he corrected, "Your country's beauty, I mean."_

"_I suppose," she muttered, embarrassed enough to dip her head to his amusement and that of those watching them, and she was propelled to shift the attentions from her. "Is it so different in Latium?"_

_His brow quirked in a way that humbled her like his blunt smile, pinpointing the limitations of her knowledge and enjoying her ignorance as if she were a child. "Yes. We don't have your mountains and forests, but we have the sea. Have you been to the shores?"_

_She shook her head slightly, pretending not to be embarrassed by how little she knew outside these walls, outside the prison of the woods. "No, I've had no reason to."_

_Eyes darting up to watch his smile grow, she regretted that he captured her attention so easily. "Perhaps one day you will."_

Her cheeks warmed at the memory of her ignorance admitted before all, and she knew she shouldn't be so sensitive it. If only his eyes hadn't seemed so full of amusement as they stared at her, filling her with unease for she couldn't understand the disappearance of his anger now to be replaced with pleasant exchanges. To her, this was some new tactic, an attempt to shame her, and she was witless and powerless to fight it. What was even more ridiculous to her anxious mind was how she still fretted over the few words!

It distracted her enough so that she recognized the sound of footfalls behind her much later than she should have, and she paused to glance behind her where the corridor was empty aside from the bronze basins which sporadically lit it. In their interim shadows settled, and her eyes uncertainly darted from one void space to the other, confused and unnerved by the vacancy that met her. She waited a moment longer for some sound or vision to interrupt the space, but it seemed the footsteps had been of her imagination perhaps conjured up while she was so engaged in her thoughts and ignorant to all else around her. It was a further humbling to her night, and she exhaled hotly from her lips as she turned and continued her path to her quarters. Inevitably, the memory arose from the ashes of her mind, persistent not to die as she wished it would, and as she replayed the conversation before her eyes, the echo found her again.

For a moment, she tossed aside the thought and continued her stride, hearing its resonance meld with another timed to match her own but coming from farther down the corridor. Without hesitation, she turned once more so suddenly she was sure she would come face-to-face with the phantom haunting her, but the hallway was empty as it had been last she checked. This time, however, she held no reservations as to what she had heard, and the implication –the idea that someone followed her who did not wish to be seen– drew a cold chill down her spine to electrify the hairs and fill her body with terror. For fifteen years, she feared they would come for her, yet she was simultaneously stunned and in some manner prepared mentally, knowing she could survive but fearful her fate had escaped her years ago. A dagger was hidden among her robes since she spoke with the guard for she understood the closer she drew, the more thorny her path would become. She knew that once she reached the corner her quarters lay ahead of her, and inside their confines, she would be safe in the company of the servants and guards who tended to her.

She turned once more, and though she could not keep her stride from lengthening when the echo of footfalls began once more, she strived to seem at ease. She worried if she ran that they would pounce on her the sooner, and she needed the distance between them if she wished any chance of reaching her refuge. Her heart thundered in her chest to feed the adrenaline through her. Her body was fire, but she could think of nothing but the presence drawing closer behind her. Its resonance increased to match her own, and it seemed to yearn to equal the pace of her heart. In her mind's eye, she planned how she would react if he caught her before she reached the door, seeing the dagger in her hand and the angle it would take to reach him. She rounded the corner, the threshold awaited her, but a hand on her arm sent her body recoiling on instinct. Within seconds, her dagger was drawn to his neck, and she forced the man against the wall of the corridor with every ounce of strength her terror-stricken body could expel. His hand caught her wrist and held the dagger from pressing deep enough into his throat to cut the skin, and without the capability to strike him down, she was left to stare up into the face of her killer. The chestnut eyes gazing back stole the blood from her features, and the fear and confusion was ice to numb her body's crescendo. Her features fell wide and open with shock much like her lips parting.

She drove more power into the hand wielding the dagger, gritting her teeth for the pressure, and caused him to tighten his grip on her wrist to restrain it. Her face quaked like little fissures of her features fed by the explosion of nerves in her mind, trying to understand and trying to fight. Hands shaking and voice strained, she asked, "Why are you following me?"

The frown absorbed the shadows of his face, sinking most into the dark gaze searching her expression. The hand cupping her waist curled around her, holding her fast to him, urged by the pallor of her features and terror soaked into her wide eyes. "I'm not," he answered and couldn't anticipate how this response would revive the trembling in her lips.

Immediately, she stepped away from him and gazed down the short corridor to the corner with her stance spread as if prepared for battle, but he followed her still holding to her wrist, sensing she might flee at any moment. The mismatched eyes flickered to him, unable to remain stagnate for long before they were considering what lay behind him once more. It was then that she stilled, her gaze wholly focused, and mouth ajar. Haemon turned to catch the shadow thrown across the floor and sliding to disappear beyond their sights, and without hesitation, he rushed down the corridor, rounding the corner and discovering the hallway vacant. So swiftly were his instincts sharpened, heart pounding, breaths even, and he attention searched every available nook where a body could hide. There was no time for a man to reach the end of the corridor... Bronze hinges groaned from his right, and he twisted to see the Princess had fled into the confines of her chambers. He alone remained in the night to face the silence of the hallway and the secret he had stumbled upon.

The hunter was right: She was terrified, but it was not of him.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hey my dolls! Excuse my delay, but I've been a bit busy and this chapter is obviously a lengthy one. I swear I'm not trying to make these huge, but I've already divided up the scenes according to chapters to keep the action rolling evenly and smoothly. I know Amy commented on the length, and if it's something you guys find tedious and overwhelming, please let me know :) So in this chapter, I'm finally getting some business done, and you're seeing some plot points begin to simmer. It's about time, right? haha I hope you guys are intrigued to see how Iliana and Damian's arrangement progresses, where this mystery in Apulia is going, and what Haemon will do now. Next chapter some big news is announced, and Haemon does something a bit naughty! :D

Thanks to AmyLNelson and klandgraf2007 as always the awesome reviews!

Amy: Agh! Yes, I'm a verbose hooker haha My chapters are long, and I seriously don't know how they get this way. I think I'm a hoarder for words -like soon they'll have an intervention, and I'll be crying like 'no, please, please don't hit the backspace bar! I need that adverb!' Sad yet true haha I swear there will be much more discussion of Myrina & Hector. I've been a liar up to this point, but you know how I have a million things going on at once. Haemon in particular is going to have a trip down memory lane soon... sigh. Yes, big families! I like that. Makes me feel less guilty for all the drama when I throw a baby in there haha I hope you liked my surprise(s) and enjoyed this chapter! xoxo

klandgraf: Haha short and sweet. Oh if only I had that power ;) I'll try: LOVE your review and can't wait to see what you think about this one! How's that? :D xx


	5. Settled and Paid

Chapter 5  
"Settled and Paid"

Night was restless and darker than she had remembered. Its dense hand shrouded all so thick it filled her lungs and blinded her eyes. Beneath its cover every distant rumble of thunder, every groan of the palace, every unknown rustle was the whisper of a traitor sent from the loins of some bastard to finish what he had started fifteen years ago. There was no sleep to be had. There was no peace to soothe her superstitions. In a world where her suspicions had been a game of deceit, disregarded as a morbid fascination from her exposure to blood at so young, she suddenly discovered herself standing on the board like a piece to be played. Had she the confidence, had she not been persuaded by the whispers of her cursed existence, or had she not feared that her own sanity was waning, she might have managed her hand better. For in this world, foes were friends and trust was bought, and it was always night. The night of the forests that were their prison, dense, dark, deep and inescapable.

Morning opened, and its sun shone through scattered clouds, low and menacing as a dog's growl; but the rains had stopped. The clouds could only carry so much in their pregnant bellies, and they had exhausted their resources from a weeklong siege of the palace and its surrounding lands. Their troops would retreat to gather more support and return once again until winter came and the ground froze and the fat drops turned to flecks of white snow. For now, however, the rain had done its worst. The streets were muddied near ruin, almost intraversable, but how the peasants tucked the edges of their robes into their waists and set about their business. Fields were drowned, but farmers would band together and work to drain their crops. Animals were sick, goats, sheep, pigs, and some were slaughtered while they were still young –lacking the fat and muscle to feed a man's work. But the Apulians did what they needed to last fall and prepare for winter. On this day they didn't bother to cast their attentions toward the palace walls even as she looked down upon them, watching them fight for survival and feeling some kinship in that respect.

"Did you see the man?" Atlan asked from behind her, and his voice was the only sound within her quarters for the other ears had been dismissed lest they be owned by her enemies.

Even by her back, he could see the severity of her mood. She was a rarity among Apulian women. Meager compared to their lofty height and darker than their pale blonde hair and pristine blue eyes. Rather, she had a mane of dusky blonde hair and soft curves unlike their athletic build. Always she had stood apart, and though she looked upon her people in the way a queen might observe her subordinates, her outline did not suit the space. It seemed cut away from some other picture and forced here against her will, and gazing at her, the silhouette of the woman he had raised as his daughter, his grasp would not reach where she delved. His hands had been cut away from her fate, and the overwhelming sensation that she was lost to him sent his stomach crumbling into his feet. Here, he looked upon the shadow of her like a wisp of what he would remember her to be, but he knew she was gone. She lost her bond to this world the night her family died like shackles torn from her feet and hands, and there she stood, held beyond her consent and destined for another path.

"No," she answered and retreated into her quarters nearer the fire that fought away the veil of cold the rains left after them. "Only a shadow."

His grey eyes followed her to the pit where she sought to warm her slender hands, but they were pale as marble and seemingly bloodless. "The Prince saw as well?"

"He chased him." She drew a trembling breath and tucked her hands into the edges of the robe drawn about her. Their regards caught, each mirroring the other's grim sharpness, and she revealed, "But found nothing. I fear he'll look for answers now."

"He already asks questions, Aurora," Atlan said with his features settling to a frown. "His men follow you and watch you. I was called to his quarters yesterday to answer for your visit to my home… He suspects a conspiracy against him. He does not trust you to be Lycaon's heir. I swore of your legitimacy, but there is no knowing how many he has questioned and how much farther he will search."

Unconsciously, her hand had risen to touch her lips, but it fell to cover her racing heart, the skin like ice to her breast. "You didn't tell him...?"

"What would you have me say?" he asked in brusque snap. "You've always feared what lay in the darkness around you."

"The Prince was there!"

"And for all I know, you both saw a shadow." Aurora's stance shifted to draw her full stature as her hands fell to fists at her sides, and Atlan challenged, "If it were a man, he would be in shackles in the dungeons."

"I know what I saw!"

"Enough of this!" he growled, teeth gnashing and temper flaring. The sound was stolen from the room, and in its absence, her eyes trembled where they looked upon the man who had always sheltered her and bolstered her and now renounced her. "You are too old to see figures in the dark! For fifteen years I have entertained your suspicions, and I see now how I have misled you to continue these games and abandon the honor of your name. If you have a shred of your father left in you, you will cease this and surrender yourself to the dignity of a life beside the Prince."

Through shuddering lips, a betrayed voice wondered, "Where is your loyalty?"

His aged brow softened, relaxing to open his eyes and shed his anger for tenderness. "To you… I'm not meant to raise a princess. I have nothing but the shrewd sense the gods gave me and wisdom enough to see what life is worth. You've seen more blood than a child ought to, but you're a woman now, Aurora. You can't pay tribute to the dead with your life; you cannot give them your years; and the dead will not protect, care for, or love you. But the Prince will." Her gaze had fallen under his true words, and in her resignation, he took her shoulder ready to persuade her now that her guard had fallen. "You do not belong here. You know it as well as I do. Go with him."

She did not shrink from his touch but turned to observe it as if she could not feel his hand on her, and gradually her eyes followed the length of his arm to his shoulder and then his face where the familiar features did not stir love and warmth in her heart. All was chill. "And what will I do if the shadows follow me to Latium?"

"They won't," he assured her, trying to will some heat into his hand that might pull her from the early winter upon her.

‡‡‡

The room was quiet, an odd feat in this land where ever in the background was the distant hum of rain, and yet the space was so still his ears could pick up the sweep of a cool breeze daring inside the palace to stir the flame of the lone candle on his table. In its flickering light, the gold glinted, and he absently considered the ring now worn and warped to fit the breadth of his finger. Its round face was marked by the royal emblem of Troy, but the edges of the embossed symbol were curved with wear making the raised design sink more and more into the surrounding space. With time it might disappear completely like sands reaching up to swallow the infamous walls of his city where one man's death had precipitated the end and killed every promise of his future. Memories of the lands once pledged to him and his father and his father before him taunted him, and he knew each of their stories by heart…

"_Dardania, founded by Dardanus, son of Zeus and Electra, and ruled by Alcathus, son of Capys and Themiste. Guardians of northern Troad."_

"_And what of their emblem?"_

"_Banner is a golden spiral on blue to symbolize the sun rotating through the sky for Apollo is protector of all of Troy."_

_His father smiled, and within the edges of his dark beard, the effect tripled and made Haemon fight away a victorious grin. Years he had learned these minute details, so that he might know the flesh of the lands to one day be inherited by him. When his father fell, he would be defender of Troy after him, and to love his country, he must understand it first. To him it was tangible in this moment, where two generations stooped over a worn map of Troad like stewards to a sacred treasure, and every correct response was a step closer to the key._

"_Good," Hector commended, still smiling, and moved his hand to point to Abydos next, but Haemon did not follow. _

_His young gaze was enraptured with the lands of his distant family, and sensing his father's patience tonight, he wondered, "Is it true –that Aeneas is the son of Aphrodite?" Haemon peeked at the Trojan Prince from the edges of his eyes and confessed swiftly, "Uncle Paris told me."_

_Hector exhaled unspoken words as to the lessons Paris taught his sons, but they were better spent on the mischievous weaver of tales than the curious ears who listened to them. "Aeneas rides to Troy in a few days' time. You should ask him yourself."_

_Dissatisfied with his father's diplomatic response, Haemon continued along his flitting train of thought, "Will he fight Achilles?"_

_Hector's hand retreated from its place on the map, knowing that now distracted, his son's attention would only regain interest once exhausted of this thought. "If they face in battle."_

"_A son of Zeus should face another demi-god," he decided without hesitation._

_Understanding now, Hector eased back into his chair. "And that seems fair to you."_

"_Heracles was a son of Zeus. He slayed the nine-headed Lernaean Hydra, captured the Cretan bull, wrestled the giant Antaeus-"_

"_I know the legends, Haemon," his father interrupted shortly considering he had been the one to tell them to his son. "Make your point."_

"_He was more powerful than any man! Is Achilles not the same?"_

_Where Haemon's eyes were wide and full of sudden agitation, Hector calmly replied, "Achilles is mortal as was Heracles. He was poisoned by his wife." _

"_And his immortal side rose to Olympus!"_

_The Prince drew a breath, giving time for his son's tension to wane. "So the stories say."_

_He sensed the underlying comment but was not yet wise enough to grasp it, and so he asked, "What do you say, Father?"_

_Their regards locked, two shades of chestnut nearly identical, but while one held concern, the other was resolved. "That he burned on the funeral pyre like any man, and Achilles and Aeneas will one day do the same. In death, we are all equal."_

"_Gods do not die," Haemon challenged without hesitation._

"_Mortals do. It is all that is certain in life."_

_Heavy words were more difficult for his son to digest, and thus, he waited in the interim, watching the thought weave through his son's mind and nearly anticipating the question before Haemon asked, "When will the war end?"_

"_When Agamemnon is satisfied, but when that will be, I do not know."_

_Since his birth, he gazed up at this titan and thought him invincible in every respect, but now the limitations of a man were coming into focus and the shroud of childhood yielded to reality. In his world, Hector always defeated their enemies and always held the answers to any dilemma, and to see something evade his father's grasp made him realize what lay behind his sheltered palace walls. _

"_I try but I can't understand," Haemon admitted. "It is wrong to take what belongs to another man. You taught me that."_

_The Crown Prince paused, wondering how to explain something senseless to the uncorrupted mind of a child, and he settled for, "He thinks he loves her."_

"_Honor above all," the young Trojan prince returned so sternly it seemed a sudden burst of wisdom had hardened his eyes, and Hector brought his palm to cup the back of his son's head, still small in comparison to his breadth but growing each time he dared to look away. Their attentions wholly focused on the other as though two mirrors echoing back the same understanding, but Haemon could not guess what his father saw in his face._

_For then Hector was abruptly sobered of all mirth and gentleness, so weary the lines deepened in his face, the pale scar across his eye twitched in thought, but otherwise, he was still. And in the silence, Haemon saw the fires of the funeral pyres in his mind, terrified of the black smoke that rose from them and unsure why he felt the memories crowding into his mind and overwhelming his concentration._

_It returned when Hector spoke, but there was no forgiveness in his tone as he said, "It is not always so simple, Haemon."_

"Honor above all," he repeated, but the childish naivety had vanished making the words bitter on his tongue; and he scowled with their effect like his skin curling to recall how foolish he had been. He learned well enough months later, and now this ring was a reminder of a debt paid in blood –the only thing they had that his father wore to his death. What mattered more than the honor of his family and his country was survival. Of all Hector's children, Haemon remembered the most of their life within the walls and the most of when it all crumbled away. Honor means little when you having nothing. It won't feed you, shelter you, protect you. No, that was the duty of his family. And he grew up fast to shoulder those responsibilities. He was the authority, the defender, and the one who helped navigate their position in these new lands, and he would not let death finish him –not until he was satisfied.

The chair groaned against the stone floor as he stood and walked toward the door. They met with Savas soon, and he held no reservations as to the reason for their audience. This orphan princess offered to him. Never had he met a woman so weak, fearful, distrustful, and quiet. She could not be farther from the heir of Lycaon he envisioned, but the previous night he had seen a flash of something raw and vulnerable. The sheer terror in her eyes as if he held the blade to her neck and not the other way around, and he would have killed the bearer of that shadow without question. That crude panic and unadulterated horror was the first fragment of truth he saw in her. Against his better wisdom, he had not spoken of the matter to any, not even his brother. He could not explain his abrupt need to protect a woman who stirred nothing in him, but it signaled an end.

It was late in the morning when he entered the throne hall alongside Ascanius and Solon to finish what they had started.

"My Lords, you have been welcome guests to my home and my table," the King observed from his stone throne where he reclined at ease in his royal vestments and content with the throne's height allowing him an advantage over the Alban Princes who stood before him.

"You've been a gracious host," Haemon agreed.

Savas smiled and stroked the graying beard trimmed and framing the power of his jaw. "Already a week has passed since your arrival, Prince… I trust you've had time to acclimate yourself and quash these accusations against my niece."

"I'm satisfied with what I've found." Savas quirked his brow invitingly, and Haemon acknowledged, "She is Lycaon's heir."

"Yes, she is." He chuckled in a humorless way meant to signal some camaraderie shared between them, but his eyes still bore the insult and the fire it stirred. "I've been patient to your concerns, more than most men could manage when accused of lying in their own home, but our countries have not had a kind history. I understand your suspicions. I know my court is victim to rumors," he muttered with a humility that did not manifest in his frank expression. "A ruler told me once that the number of gossips who followed him were the only true sign of his power. Any less than thirty, and he found cause for another war." A smile grew as he laughed at the thought and added his weight to the support of one arm. "I would have been more concerned did I not know you to be wise men –cautious, yes, but serious to our negotiations." His icy eyes centered on the tallest man standing before him, unforgiving in his stance but decided. "You rode here for business, Prince, and business must be handled. You have asked your questions, seen my niece, and talked amongst yourselves. The time has come for a decision."

All attentions focused on the Crown Prince of Alba Longa who had gathered his full height, squaring off his broad shoulders, and gazing at Savas with the ease of equals. By his stature alone, he looked indomitable and powerful as his reputation suggested, and breaths abated to hear what his final decision would be.

‡‡‡

Night heralded another dinner, and from the abundance of the feast displayed, roasted goat, fresh fruit, stews, and more, one wouldn't be the wiser of the supreme toll and burden this placed on the King. Appearances were costly, but they were powerful. Men lust with their eyes first before conceding to their better senses, and perhaps these lavish feasts were a blatant seduction to guarantee the success of Savas' wishes. Little did her uncle know of how often, how purposefully, how audaciously she attempted to subvert them. However, her encounter with the Prince the evening before had not been a hoax of some elaborate scheme, and truly she feared facing him once more. From the first night he arrived, he had held the upper hand in their relationship, and she awaited the day he would tangle her in the web she had created and send her crumbling to his feet.

"You look beautiful this evening," Davos' wife commented kindly as she found her way to Aurora's side.

She smiled and bent her head modestly, knowing how carefully she had executed her appearance around one, specific detail.

"And such a unique necklace. I don't think I've ever seen you wear it before."

"It was a gift," she acknowledged at last and straightened her neck to glance about the buzzing hall in search of a particular face among them.

"From an admirer?" she teased in a lowered tone, but the intrigue was undeniable.

It was a recognition of how few men had considered her, and even she could not deny the prick of blood behind her cheeks and subtle pleasure when she met her sister-in-law's regard and answered, "From Prince Haemon." What she neglected to admit was how she held onto the necklace among with his other gifts for fear of encouraging him, but she hoped to remedy the damage done before it festered into an infected wound.

She watched the surprise bloom in her sister-in-law's face, too genuine to be restrained, and smiled feeling more pleased than offended. As her gaze strayed once more to assess the flow of company around them, she was drawn to a void in the crowd of guests where the bodies parted, and there he stood with his brother and speaking to Davos. Her heart sped merely by the sight of his tall, muscular figure in his usual black robes. Unconsciously, he sipped at his cup and glimpsed toward her, but the image registered in his mind, causing him to turn fully and meet her still attentive eyes. Even across this space, the flash of chestnut was rough as a gust of wind, and her impulse was to bow to it. But she fought to perfect this presentation of herself to him. Though she could not help her eyes turning down, she was reminded of all she had done with the intent to please him. Her fingers brushed the cool sliver of opal attached to a thin gold chain, and a pale grey-blue gown matched the gemstone perfectly, accenting the tone of her skin and straw-colored curls loosely falling about her shoulders. It was a dress meant for the spring or summer, a thin material shaped to her body that was too light for the cooler weather, but she could bear the chill knowing how it complemented the stone and her own figure. A bit brazenly, she turned to him once more to find his eyes still on her. It was a reward, but her heart faltered not knowing from his stoic face whether he was pleased or otherwise.

Savas entered the hall and broke their concentration as the King brushed to reach his grand seat at the head of the table. Others were obedient to this silent cue and found their places at the table, and servants hurried to take their full pitchers of wine and fill each man and woman's cup to the brim. Seated across from each other as usual, she found reason to distract herself and murmured some meaningless words to one of her stepbrothers beside her. Her gaze delved past the reach of his face to see Davos and his wife bent in conversation with another couple, and soon the faces turned to consider her. Word travelled quickly within court, and she turned to face the man who had pinned her in position and held her captive in his dark look. Even as he lifted his cup to his shoulder, allowing a servant to fill what he had emptied only moments earlier, he did not stray. She felt it in the pressure building on her chest as though to squash her racing heart and sensed her weakness when confronted by his authority.

Savas surveyed the servant's advance further and further along the length of his table where his guests, family, and loyal supporters were called to bear witness to his words. Once he was satisfied by the number of filled cups, he encouraged them to be raised along with his own as he called out, "The gods have given us reason to celebrate."

Respectfully, the conversations died out, and attentions turned to the King still standing.

"A week ago, I welcomed the Princes of Alba Longa and their men into my lands." He glanced at these men and smiled candidly like two friends sharing the same secret, and Aurora felt her stomach drop. "I kept the nature of our negotiations private, but it has been no secret that our two countries share a common goal –peace. When the Albans came to the west nearly two decades ago, my father was among those kings who denied their right to the lands, but unlike my father, I see their strength and their tenacity, worthy traits of men building a kingdom…" His icy blue gaze strayed across the faces of those at his table, seeming to search for any glance he did not approve. "Worthy traits of allies of Apulia."

Murmurs underlined the King's silence as those gathered took what they would from his words. He reined them in once more when he continued in a more stoutly tone, "It has been decided this day how our two countries will be united, and the gods have smiled upon our choice for the rains have cleared; and I see a new beginning…" Pleased by the tension and curiosity he had cultivated, he at last delivered his final words, "A union between Prince Haemon and my niece Aurora."

The revolution of his gaze ended on her, and she stared up into her uncle's severe smile, seeing the malicious pleasure in it that caused the blood to sink with gravity and settle like stone in her hands and feet. Atlan had warned her of this, even fooled her into thinking she was prepared, but with the announcement, she still felt blindsided. Until this moment, it had been a rumor and a possibility, and now, her head swiveled above her shoulders to see him. Her husband. The words were hollow, but she searched his face in this moment, taking in the chestnut curls gathered at his neck and trimmed beard etching out the angles of his jaw. A small pink scar followed the grain of his beard on his right cheek, thin and long healed, and it appeared a reminder of how futilely men had tried to destroy him, how much stronger he was than she knew him to be. _He will protect you, care for you, love you_, she told herself and dared to follow his straight nose to his eyes relaxed and waiting for her to meet them. They were calm, hard as stone but patient, and in them she saw some sliver of kindness afforded to her with how emptily they considered her. Even restrained, something in them sent her heart stumbling within her chest, and she swallowed the fear coating her throat. She bowed her chin and considered the stone sitting on her chest, smiling with a sardonic corner of her mouth to see how fate worked.

"Tonight we drink to their health, their happiness, and their prosperity!" Savas prompted, and all those gathered added their calls and praises and followed their king who drank deeply from his cup. The bronze chalices landed heavily on the wooden table, and the sound marked the start of their feast. Musicians began playing a buoyant song, and the company was swept up into hearty discussions of this unexpected news.

Savas took his seat and found Haemon's shoulder, shaking it in good will and smiling broadly. "Now Prince, there is something we neglected to discuss this morning."

"And what is that?" he wondered.

"We have a tradition among our people to mark an engagement," the King explained and waved for a servant to bring him a piece of goat.

Aurora was listening to the conversation and inclined her head toward her uncle, glancing at him as though understanding of what he spoke. This caught the Prince's attention who was intrigued and jested, "More than a speech and a feast?"

"Yes," he answered as he looked to Haemon once more and grinned. "You see it is our way of honoring the gods and proving that the match is a fortuitous one." He tore off a piece of bread and chewed it roughly.

In the interim, her soft voice spoke out, "It is old, Uncle."

The four words were fuel to Haemon's curiosity, and his attention remained fixed on Savas who confessed, "Yes, it is old, but I think you the sort of man to enjoy it. It would be a symbol of our families uniting –Alban and Apulian."

"What is it?"

His smile grew, and he eased his elbow onto the table, bending closer to the Prince to sustain the private conversation even knowing Aurora listened still. "A hunt." He saw the interest flicker in the man's eyes, and he explained, "The man enters the woods to kill the greatest stag he can find and presents it to his woman, and if she is pleased, the stag is brought to the temple of Zeus and offered as tribute… A prosperous hunt means the gods will show their favor and reward you with a son."

Haemon reflected Savas' smile, seduced by the challenge and the opportunity to prove himself to his new allies, and he agreed, "It is a good tradition. I will be glad to take up a hunt in honor of my future wife and the fortune of our marriage."

"Wise man!" Savas applauded him and patted his shoulder amiably. "I knew you would not shy from the test, and I will give you a secret since you are a stranger to our lands. There is a path that follows the river and takes you to the mountains. There you'll find the greatest beasts."

"It is dangerous," Aurora said and abruptly interrupted the conversation among the two men who glanced at her, one annoyed and the other interested. She shifted uneasily in her seat under their piercing eyes but persevered, "The path is narrow and will be weak from the rain. No one crosses it after summer wanes."

"No common men," Savas dismissed with a grunt of displeasure.

"My eldest son participated years ago when his marriage was announced," the Queen contributed to be sure her niece's words were neglected, "and already the gods have blessed him with two sons!"

Haemon assessed her silence then trying to decipher it as defiance toward their announced union or concern for his well-being. The later seemed impossible given the course she had taken until this point –only this night seeking his good graces by wearing one of his affections. He was not a man to be manipulated, least of all by this woman. "I'm not afraid of a little rain," he said and looked to Savas once more, extending his cup slightly as he marked, "To the hunt."

"To allies," he countered with a smile sneaking into his thin lips, and both drank ardently to their success.

‡‡‡

The King revealed his foresight when the dinner shifted to a celebration which lasted long into the night. Pitchers of wine were exhausted, more animals roasted, and it was at night's thickest that Haemon retreated to his quarters with a full stomach and a weariness brought on by the alcohol and late hour. He removed the pin holding the cloth about him and tossed the heavy fabric across a chair. He addressed the lacing of his vest next, looking to his bed where furs had been added to keep away the growing cold, and the temptation was enough to rouse a long yawn.

"My Lord," a servant announced from his threshold, "you have a visitor."

"Tell him I'll see him tomorrow," he countered gruffly, impatient with the night and ready to surrender to sleep, but as he turned to face the servant, he saw her standing inside his room. Such a rare sight was enough to shuck away the weariness veiling his eyes. With his concentration captured, he crossed the short distant, and the servant exited without needing to be dismissed. "It's late to visit a man's chambers."

"Forgive me," she murmured in that soft tone. "I thought I was visiting my betrothed."

The frown settled between his brows, and he stepped past safe limits, approaching her near enough he could hear the sharp inhale she drew as he reached out to touch the necklace crowning her breast. "You've change your mind again," he countered, aggravated to be reminded of the offense.

Her eyes drilled into his chest, unable to life higher, and she confessed, "I was hasty in my judgment."

"In your judgment or actions?" He released the stone and scorned, "Even now you can't look at me."

She swallowed, the supple skin and muscles contracting around her slender neck, and timidly, she peered through her eyelashes up at him. His expression was pitiless, mouth receding to a deep scowl, and only his pits for eyes dismissed her. Her mouth was dry to receive such a look and so close that no space could soften the effect. "You intimidate me."

This gained her a smile no matter how sarcastic, and he ironically pointed out, "But you are here –alone."

Her gaze fell once more to level with his chest and the loosened threads giving her a better glimpse of what lay beyond the vest's reach, a span of hardened muscles protecting the bone and perhaps beneath, a heart. "I want to clarify myself… What I said to you last night, it was foolish. The wine must have affected me, and I frightened myself with the walk alone."

"I don't doubt that you are fearful of the dark," he commented, "but I know what I heard and what I saw."

Without hesitation, her eyes snapped to look at him, at once excited and anxious, and finding his expression unchanged, she challenged, "If you saw anyone, they would be in the dungeons or dead."

"Yes," he agreed and surveyed her from toe to nose, taking his time to note how the fabric fell across her curves, following the line of her breasts, and between them lay his gift.

"Unless it was one of your men," she continued in a nervous whisper, and his attention returned to her face, eyes narrowed and suspicious. "I know they follow me."

"No. Not last night and no more. I would not agree to marry you if I held any reservations." Here his bride stood before him dressed to seduce his eyes and please his rougher nature, and he was insulted she thought him so easily abated to be denied one moment and accepted the next. She was not the master among them. The wine and the night roused his bitterness, and he drew toward her, seeing how tense her body became like the sinew of bow pulled taut.

"Steeds, gold, and the promise of allies in battle." The confusion seeped into her eyes, and his smirk was humorless as he explained, "That is what I paid for you."

Her gaze trembled and fell away, and he bent closer to hammer in his words; but she retreated from him unable to sustain the pressure kindling between them. His hands captured her elbows, restraining her from fleeing and forcing her to fall against his chest. She didn't fight, but her face turned away to avoid his words.

"I want you to know how little your uncle sold you for," he continued so close he felt the heat of his breath meet her temple and sweep back into his mouth. Its touch provoked the quaking of her features, but her face remained suspended and stretched at an awkward angle. His grip tightened on her while his eyes drank in her response. "Does that anger you?"

"Yes," she hissed under her breath, and her regard had fallen to the floor perhaps finding comfort in its stillness where her whole body was shaking.

"In week's time, maybe less," he continued, "I will take you to my city. We do not have lavish palaces; there will be no throng of young girls waiting on you; you will not have beautiful dresses or piles of jewelry… In my land, fortune favors the strong, and there is no place for weakness."

She jerked abruptly against his grip, finding the two hands as unyielding as iron shackles, and she gritted her teeth, asking through her tense jaw, "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you were born to be the wife of a true king," he answered, and her neck released, allowing her to turn and spear him with her eyes. He taunted her with her bride price, meager for an heir of Lycaon, and provoked the honor of her name. The blood boiled beneath her skin, rising to simmer in her eyes, and he commanded, "Behave like it."

All at once, her hand reached out to strike him, but he was too strong to overpower. Yet her purpose was clear manifested in the groan of frustration through her lips, and he welcomed the burst of flames he knew was inside her. Who had suffocated it, silenced it, banished it, he didn't care. Her palms flattened on his chest, pushing to release herself, and the way her fear succumbed to fight aroused something in him. Fury that she would try to disrespect him again, and satisfaction to know how he had baited her and returned to her the same offense he bore. Impulsively, he claimed his bride, smothering the anger from her and tasting the fragrance of wine on her breath.

His stubble stung her mouth and cheeks, and her body found its bearings with her flesh yielding to his solid chest. Her lips were the more malleable, almost perverse in how soft they felt and with how indulgently he enjoyed them. Her inexperience, the rigidity in her body and unresponsiveness, should have made him ashamed to run his tongue over the velvety flesh, but he savored it guiltlessly nibbling on her lower lip to test its plump curve. Whatever he demanded, she surrendered without question or hesitation, her head spinning recklessly, dizzying her and making her forget how to breathe or think or control. The shape of her body molded to him and made his hands hungry to explore those slopes and curves, and he forced her elbows behind her back, catching her body between his arms and chest where he could feel the bones in his grip.

He sought to teach her the price of taunting him, and yet, he could barely find the will to release her, noting the unsatisfied tension settling deep in his abdomen as he faced the sultry heaviness to her lids and swollen lips he had stirred. The fire had died in her eyes and yielded to the fear once more, a disappointment to his rising desires and reminder of her limitations. He exhaled hotly through his nose and let go of her elbows, and she stumbled a bit clumsily away from him, accustomed to the support of his chest and unsteady with only her fragile strength to sustain her. Their regards remained locked in a battle of wills, hers insulted, humiliated, stirred, but she couldn't sustain a war with him. Bowing her head, she retreated and left him alone in his quarters.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hello lovelies! Ah... it's the bitchier moments that give me so much evil happiness :) Haemon was a bit of a dickhead, but there's always a reason! I hope you all enjoyed this, and upon further reflection of the outline I made, I think I might be able to consolidate some things and move the action along a little quicker!

Thanks AmyLNelson for the wondrously long review ;) I'm glad you don't mind my wordiness because I doubt I have the good sense to control myself haha This was a bit of a trip down memory lane for Haemon, and hopefully it was what you had hoped for. It makes me a little sad to think of Hector again... I'm sorry the plot has been confusing. It's a bit difficult to balance two different plot avenues especially one as complicated as Haemon and Aurora's. So it seems you were correct. Haemon and Aurora are now engaged, and Iliana and Damian will have another opportunity to be supremely awkward and adorable next chapter :) There is certainly a mystery surrounding Aurora's family's deaths, and I've been careful to slip in a few clues. You'll understand fully what's going on in a few more chapters, and I really don't think you'll anticipate what will happen :D Though you do have a pretty good knack for reading my mind! Thanks for the review, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter xoxo


	6. A Fork in the Road

Chapter 6  
"A Fork in the Road"

A final moan was exhausted from her lips, so deep it rattled her chest, and his hips sunk into her to seal that burst of pleasure electrifying her through her nails. Her eyes nearly rolled behind her fluttering lashes as the wave crashed over her leaving her so sensitive, she shuddered as he pulled away and left her breathless, burning, and weary. Her amber eyes were unfocused, gazing up at the ceiling of their bedroom, and her fingers released their siege on the tangled bed covers, numb like the rest of her skin so satisfied and content she could feel nothing else –until his lips found her belly. The stubble was scratchy to the sensitive skin, and she grinned in a childishly indulgent way then letting her fingers cup his damp curls and massage his scalp.

Nereus charged forward and found his wife's lips, helping wake them to remember the indulgence of his kiss, and he was careful to keep his chest from crushing the curve between them. Sera grasped onto the muscles of his shoulders then sliding along the sweaty skin to the taut back, holding tight to him and missing the sensation of his weight upon her so fiercely in that moment.

"Why is it so hot?" she groaned against his lips, feeling their damp brows slide against one another and the moist curls stuck to her temples and cheeks.

He smiled and kissed her once more before settling into their bed beside her and allowing his palm to grasp onto her swollen belly. "He will be born in the fall," he said. "The heat will wane soon."

Sera smiled faintly despite the crease to her brow. "It's never cold," she grumbled and found her husband's gaze, then reaching out to cup his cheek, "but I will manage."

"Sacrificing yourself for our child. You're such a martyr, my love," he teased and grinned.

"I would smack that smile off your handsome face," she warned and reclined deeper into the support of the pillow where copper hair was tousled about her, and she fanned at her flushed features, lamenting again, "If I weren't so hot."

Nereus laughed and bowed his head, and he considered her suddenly appealing expression from beneath his brow. "Do you regret finding me?" he asked with his tone lowering to remind her of their encounter in the hallway when he returned from night patrol before they stumbled into the bedroom half-clothed and tangled in each other's arms. The peak in her desires was an effect of her pregnancy he would never complain about…

She sighed softly and closed her eyes even as the smile hiked up her lips. "I would take your head one moment and then have you the next," she said. "I can't control it."

His teasing subsided to a more subdued smile, and he pushed back the damp curls sticking to her forehead and cheeks as he recognized how they both were blind attempting to navigate the happiness and fears of their first child. It was easier for him to see the good in everything than to understand her pains, the false contractions, the mood swings, and above all, the heat.

"I will gladly offer the latter, but I'd like to keep my head so that I can see my child when his eyes open."

She turned to consider her husband, letting her eyes fall beyond his features to admire the rest of him, and she chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully in the way a merchant might appraise his goods. When her eyes found their way back to him, her lips curved with a sinful look, and she decided, "I suppose I'll allow it."

To receive such an expression, he fed on her lips once more while she stretched her neck to reach him, and his arm circled beneath her to help her weakened neck. The tide was poised to turn with the heat captured between their lips when a noise down the hall distracted them, and Nereus reluctantly released her to listen better the sounds travelling down the hall.

"Stay here," he murmured and stood, tying a piece of cloth around his waist and grabbing his dagger from the table. Sera was propped onto the pillows with one hand protectively gripping to their unborn child, and her eyes narrowed in concern as she watched her husband slip out of the door.

Nereus crept from their bedroom and followed the subtle sounds down the hall to the corner where the corridor opened to the kitchen. He held his breath, hearing the rummaging of someone inside, and all at once, sprung from his hiding spot with his dagger overhead and a cry from his tongue.

Ariston lifted both hands armed with a chalice in one and a loaf in the other. A piece of bread was latched between his teeth, and he grinned around the rugged edges and said, "Morning, brother."

Nereus abandoned his battle stance in a moment, rolling his eyes to see his youngest brother raiding their supplies though he shouldn't have been surprised. Each of the brothers had their role within the family, and Ariton was undoubtedly the cultivator of all things mischievous and brash. Even in the mild light, he could see the glossiness to his brother's eyes that hinted at the night Ariston had stumbled in from, and Nereus snatched away the cup of wine from his hand though Ariston complained, "I was drinking that!"

"You need water," Nereus said in a tone that left no room for questions. "It's too early in the day to be this drunk."

"Suppose the night's not ended?" he muttered while he chewed on the bread in his teeth, looked toward the window, and winced at the growing light.

"It's morning, little brother, and you nearly convinced my wife there was someone in our home," he condemned, forcing a stern expression and pretending not to be amused by Ariston's swiveling gaze.

"Only Sera?" he challenged and jumped to mimic Nereus' stance moments ago, legs spread, dagger overhead. He burst into a roar laughter, but his older brother seemed less than amused.

"Go home and sleep this off."

"Good morning, Ariston," Sera commented from the hallway where she had drawn her sleeping gown around her and now dared to step beside her husband, placing her palm on his lower back as some unspoken soothing touch. She had been part of his family long enough to learn the politics which motivated it and the characters of each member. It was not the first time she had seen her brother-in-law in a less than honorable state, yet her patience was more extensive than that of Nereus'.

The latest addition caused Ariston to abruptly compose himself as best as his drunken state could allow to save what little dignity he could, but Sera looked at the loaf in his hand and quirked her brow. "Hungry I see?"

He grinned sheepishly and waved the loaf in front of him. "You caught me."

She smiled and winked from Nereus' side where he wouldn't be the wiser to her candid look, and she cupped the growing bump beneath her dress, confessing, "Me too." Without another word, she left her husband's side, found the bowl where the fruit was kept, and searched through its contents for a ripe, swollen fig.

"You're a goddess, Sera," Ariston decreed in a loud tone, and Sera peeked past the young man at her husband, knowing how easily his brother's affections were won with a little kindness and tolerance. "Lucky bastard's always been the wisest of us. It makes sense he would find you."

Nereus regarded his little brother unapologetically and eased his weight against the entryway between the kitchen and hall.

"Do you think I'll ever have a woman as beautiful, as gracious, as amusing as you?" Ariston asked emphatically and spun on his heels to face Sera.

"Perhaps if you stop these wild chases of yours," she replied and covered her full mouth to catch the juice in the corner of her mouth with her tongue then sweeping it across her lips. "Who was it this night?"

"Evios' daughter," he replied, tore off another piece of bread, and chewed it with a disgruntled grumble. "She knows how she taunts me with those…" His voice trailed off leaving his hands to extend into the air where they clutched onto something round and unmistakable. "They're enough to drive men to their knees. Ballads could be written about her-"

"Enough," Nereus prompted, annoyed how his brother had no respect for Sera's presence, and roughly rubbed a hand across his face. If only his brother had stumbled drunk into another home, he would still be in bed with his naked wife.

"She may be blessed," Sera said while finishing her snack, "but I've never thought much of her mind."

"Yes," Ariston confessed. "She's dumb as," he held up the bread in his hand and smirked sardonically, "this bread, but by the gods, she is beautiful."

"A man with your appeal deserves more than a witless beauty, I'd think," Sera decided sweetly, at once trying to appeal to Ariston's ego and subvert his usual motivations for something more honorable, and she plucked another fig from the bowl, "but that's not for me to say. I'll leave you men to speak while I lie down for a moment."

"Rest," Ariston agreed without question, completely charmed by his brother's pregnant wife in his drunken state, even seeming as though he might reach out to help her past him but decided better of it. "We won't disturb you."

Nereus granted his brother a loaded glance, then abandoning it to be sure his wife was not retreating out of illness, and she smiled at the mild concern in his eyes and touched his shoulder reassuringly as she passed.

In the void left behind her, Ariston looked at his brother and reiterated, "She's a goddess. I hope you realize that."

"I did marry her," he commented and moved from the threshold to sit at the table where their voices wouldn't carry down the hall as easily. This far into her pregnancy, she needed rest, and he wouldn't weaken her or his child just to sustain an unsolicited conversation with his drunk brother.

Ariston took his brother's cue and settled loudly onto the bench beside him, not sparing a guilty grimace for the clatter he made, but when nothing struck back to condemn him, he groaned low in his throat and stretched out his legs, leaning back to rest his elbows on the table behind him.

"Shouldn't you be home?" Nereus prompted and sipped at the cup he had stolen from his brother. Good wine shouldn't be wasted even this early in the day. It did little to quell his thirst, but the action relieved some of the agitation building in his shoulders.

"No, I hoped to speak with one of my brothers, and you're the only one still in Alba Longa."

Nereus understood that responsibility well enough considering how many times he had to restrain Ariston's eagerness for battle, and he eased his arms onto the table as he gazed at his little brother. "What about, Ariston?"

"The threat of Umbria has made me think about our life in these lands," he responded, and his blue eyes seemed sharper without explanation, "and about our family." He tossed the remaining loaf onto the table and let his free hands now cup the base of his neck. "We've been lucky to have a father whose health has sustained him these long years, but I can't help wondering how much longer our good fortune will last." He looked at his older brother with open features searching to see if his words were reflected there, if they had ever occurred to Nereus as well.

He merely scratched his head and poorly stifled a yawn.

"Doesn't that concern you?" he asked impatiently.

"No," Nereus answered in a resolute tone, "there's no point to thinking about our father's death."

"What will we do when he is gone? He's the only connection we have left to our home."

"This is our home," he said evenly.

"Each day a new threat rises and wants to drive us out!"

"Stability takes years of work and an established legacy. There will be no immediate reward for us, but we've been raised to support and defend ourselves. Alba Longa can bear any threat so long as her sons stand."

"Yes," Ariston said bitterly. "We thought we could bear any threat once before. I think we all recall how well that went…"

"You still think of Troy?" he asked, unable to mask his surprise and reproaching look.

"Do you not? Have you already forgotten the way the walls looked in the morning when the first light hit them, or the secret passages in the palace that would take us anywhere, or how we would all crowd onto the balcony to look out at the sea?"

"I remember the first time I touched the sea," he responded, frowning deeply as he gazed at his brother. "I was nine, and we were fleeing with Aeneas across the Aegean before Agamemnon's men realized we weren't in the palace. I remember looking back at the shores, and even so far away, even a day's ride from Troy, I could see the smoke."

The weight of his brother's tone and expression were too heavy for Ariston to maintain, and his hands fell limply to his sides though his purpose was not diminished. "We are sons of Hector, Defender of Troy, and yet we hide in these lands like whipped dogs crouching from Agamemnon's hand. We ran so far, to lands so distant from Troy that no one knows our names or the legacy we carry. They think us arrogant, brash bastards invading their lands!"

"Quiet!" Nereus hissed irritably as Ariston's words grew louder and louder within the home. His blue eyes flashed at his brother's sudden impudence, and he reminded him, "We are safe. If Agamemnon or his mule of a brother Menelaus knew we survived, and even better, that we _prospered_, he would send the weight of Greece to crush us." His tone lowered to dangerous levels, sending all that power funneling into his eyes. "He would not kill us, brother. No, for years now he has thought of our demise, seen us as the final barrier to his victory, and he has planned how he will torture us, humiliate us, make us beg for death. That may not scare you, little brother. You might even think it noble." His gaze switched focus, shifting back and forth between his brother's severe eyes and taking a turn in piercing through the veil of wine in each. "But remember what he did to the wives of Troy. Remember what he did to the children… I will never let that happen to my family so long as I live."

Ariston had been doubly silenced, and his heavy head bowed for a moment to recognize the harsher memories. He had only been five when the city fell, and in his way, his childish mind rationalized their demise and their departure, glorifying the lands they left behind and even as man envisioning they might return with honor one day. But never again would they see those great walls built by gods' hands and torn down by men's greed.

"Truthfully," he muttered to break the quiet between them, "I can't even remember what the walls looked like." He smirked humorlessly and looked at his older brother, his blue eyes taking on a new sheen much sobered and disappointed. "Or the streets, or the palace, or Hector." He said their father's name in a distant way for he no longer recognized the man of legend as his father. It was Aeneas who had raised him. "Sometimes I look at Haemon because I know he's the most like him, and I try to see him. I try to remember something."

A warm hand found Ariston's shoulder, and he glanced at his brother's feeble attempt to console him. "It's better to forget."

"I know," he said and stood, letting his brother's hand fall away as he did so, and he rubbed at his nose where a sudden pricking had left it itching. Sucking back the emotion, he ended in a forced tone while avoiding Nereus' gaze, "Tell Sera I'm sorry I woke her."

Without another word, he let himself out of the home, and Nereus remained at the table for though Ariston left, the tortured energy remained long after him. So Nereus sat and nursed the remaining wine in the cup before he could calm his wandering thoughts and join his wife sleeping in their bed.

‡‡‡

By high noon, Ariston was still sleeping off the alcohol, Nereus rested from his late shift guarding their lands, and Aeneas was in conversation with his counselors and generals as to the continued preparations for engaging Umbria. For whatever reason, Scipio and his men had stopped their advance along the river, and the men strove to understand this shift in tactics when they were certain he marched to steal Port Sanna. With all three men occupied or incapacitated, they were none the wiser to Iliana's disappearance.

The young woman struggled against the weight of the pot in her hands, limping across the square and toward the unassuming forge. She was forced to pause near the well halfway across the distance and rest for a moment, and she had the fortuitous opportunity to converse with their priestess –who promised numerous prayers for Iliana, her father, and her brothers– before she picked up her burden and continued on her way. Aeneas would not be distracted forever nor would Nereus and Ariston sleep all day, not with concerns of Umbria to rouse them.

At the threshold to his home, the door was propped open as always and held ajar by the same, butchered helmet, and only this time when she placed the pot beside the piece of armor did she wonder about it. Why was it forged so poorly, and why was it used as his doorstopper? The man who could answer her questions was nowhere to be seen, and remembering their last encounter, she beat loudly against the door to announce herself and waited with her heart gaining momentum inside her chest. The resounding silence that met her further added to its pace, and she dared to step into the home and consider its vacancy. The fire was dying out, barely even a crackle and simmer of glowing embers, and she wiped her palms, bruised and red from the handle, against her dress and took another step while searching about her.

"Damian?" she asked softly but heard no response.

Another step, and nothing stirred within the confines to suggest life. _He's not here_, she thought, pretending such a realization didn't disappoint her. _Perhaps you can try again tomorrow_… As her mind acclimated to this idea, there was movement behind her, and she spun to see him entering the home with a pile of wood under one arm. He took stock of her in a short glance before he picked up the pot with his free hand, kicked aside the helmet, and left the door to fall closed behind him. It rebounded off the frame with a loud smack, then bouncing slightly until it closed, and Damian tossed the freshly split wood beside the stone pit and carried the pot around her as she hurried out of his way.

"It's heavy," he observed though there was no visible sign the weight affected him for his stride was as composed and even as if nothing hindered him.

"I know," she returned in an apologetic tone. "It's the only pot I could spare."

He set it on the table and pulled aside the cloth to see the pieces of a roasted chicken with root vegetables in a clear broth. The aroma was released, and he sniffed faintly at the waves of steam and wondered, "You made this?"

"Yes…" Her hands clasped nervously in front of her, and she dared to approach the table near him. "Do you not like it?"

"Where I come from, princesses don't cook," he explained and found her anxious expression. "Not well anyway."

Within his words was some compliment though it took her a moment to find it, and she smiled in relief and stood beside him at the table. "My mother taught me when we first came to these lands. It's silly, but it reminds me of her. I think my brothers and father enjoy it for that reason as well."

His dark gaze remained on her, examining her in the way he had the last time they met, but this close the attention unnerved her. "You must take after her," he commented finally, and she smiled at his mistake, knowing the innocence in it even if it brought a dull pain to her chest.

"No," she answered gently, "I look just like my father, or so my mother told me."

His expression softened with understanding as he realized his error and the inadvertent discomfort he might have caused.

"He died in battle when I was barely a year old…" She looked to her fingers still twined like her bundled nerves weighing down her stomach and continued, "My mother told me stories of him –and in that way, I know him– but I don't remember anything." Idly examining one of her cuticles, her thoughts were enraptured with her honest explanation and the silence he granted her to fill. "Aeneas was his best friend. He swore to protect us if my father fell and-" She halted abruptly, seeming to realize she had spoken too much, and glanced at Damian whose attention rested solely on her. Twisting her hands, she faltered for a way out of the hole she had dug.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile that made her too aware of the gap in years between them, and he changed the subject as a relief for her loose tongue. "I didn't expect you so soon, or I would have more to show you."

"Yes," she agreed and almost blushed a deeper shade as she recalled why she had even come here. By some grace of the gods, he didn't notice because he turned away and grabbed an untidy stack of papers all different lengths, glancing through them until he found what he was looking for.

"It is only a rough idea," he said and offered one of the sheets.

She took the paper from him and considered the rugged parchment where he had outlined his plan with the edge of a burnt piece of wood. It gave her no better sense of the blade, not of size or breadth, and she felt a bit foolish as she wondered, "How large will it be?"

"No greater than a usual sword, or it would be too heavy." Reconsidering, he added, "Unless you want it to be ornamental."

She looked at the rough sketch again and pursed her lips unconsciously.

"It is customary for the blade of a king to be wielded in battle and passed after him when he falls," he commented, no doubt sensing her ignorance on this matter.

She nodded then and decided, "I would like that." He reached past her to point out the small details following the right edge of the blade, and she flinched beyond her control, hoping he didn't take offense. "I can't read what it says," she confessed and squinted her eyes for a better view of the paper.

"Nothing yet," he admitted, "but I will engrave the symbols of Alba Longa's patron, whichever god or goddess you claim."

Her knit brow relaxed suddenly for she only then recognized how her ploy, a gift for her father and an avenue to speak with Damian, had morphed into the forging of a beacon for her people and her city. It filled her with the supreme purpose of her position, and she discovered herself sobered of anxiety and nerves at this realization. Through clear eyes, she considered the sheet, able to envision the blade within her mind's eye.

"Apollo," she decided and paused thoughtfully before adding, "and Aphrodite."

"Both?"

He guided her without humiliating her ignorance and helped her choose what would be best for her father, but on this point, she was certain. "Apollo has been our patron since we left our lands and found our new home, and Aphrodite-" she smiled mysteriously while turning the parchment in her fingers, "she protects Aeneas and his heirs."

"Then I will carve Apollo's on one side," he said while pointing to the markers where the Sun God's emblems would settle following the edge of the blade, "and when turned, Aphrodite's on the other."

"It will be beautiful…" she commented distantly, lost staring at the paper and imaging this sketch reaching fruition in a blade fit for the Alban king. _What will Father say when I present this to him..._

While she was resigned to her silent thoughts, his attention withdrew from his sketch to the young woman beside him. Tall enough that her head reached his nose where he merely needed to step forward to touch his lips to her temple. It was the easier for him to admire her profile as a result, the soft nose, large round eyes, feminine angle of her jaw-

"It will be ready in time?" she wondered and turned to consider Damian. All at once, she realized the weight of his gaze and proximity between them, and a fresh blush renewed in her cheeks, which she recognized more in the warmth of his eyes and subtle tremor of her heart.

"Yes," he promised. "I will begin forging it tomorrow at the latest."

She was enraptured with a new thought: the realization of how easily she could express a year's worth of pent of need, only tilt her head and reach forward. It seemed so simple, but the opportunity blindsided her, rousing such a tangled combination of emotions that she couldn't move to act out any of them. "Thank you," she mumbled out of habit more than recognizing what he had said.

He smiled and took the paper from her to return to the stack. "We have a deal, Princess," he reminded her.

Once free of his eyes, their spell was lost on her, and she gathered her wits as demurely as she could. "You can call me Iliana," she said. "I haven't felt like much of a princess my entire life."

He motioned for her to take a seat while he washed his hands in a small bowl. "That is why your family is admired," he spoke as he picked up a plate and sat across from her. He drew aside the cloth over the pot and spooned a hefty portion onto the plate while explaining, "You do not demand respect. You earn it."

"You've only lived here a year," she murmured, charmed but humbled. "A few more months and you might realize the arrogance of my brothers."

He smirked to himself, bending his head slightly while he pulled apart the chicken between his thumbs, the nails still stained black even cleaned.

"You think I'm jesting?"

"No... You remind me of how I behaved with my brothers."

She was immediately intrigued that he now offered some piece of his past to her when it was only the other day he had closed off at the mere proposition. In a calm tone, she asked, "Did you have many?"

"We were nine brothers and sisters in all." He lifted his brow, knowing well enough how large that was, and chewed on a tender morsel of roasted meat.

"How did you manage to get away?" Her voice was teasing, but her eyes were wide and curious.

He seemed to appraise their sincerity before wiping his hands on the rag. "You asked me if my father were a blacksmith," he recalled. "The man who bore me was a freed slave, but he had no money or birthright and so he worked for a wealthy family, much like a slave but for a small wage. My mother washed the family's clothes, and together they had enough to buy bread and some lentils every week." His jaw stiffened briefly, a sign of bitterness perhaps, before he continued, "When there were more mouths to feed than food to share, my father sold me to a blacksmith."

"How old were you?" she asked, unable to keep the disbelief from her knit features.

"Six," he answered. "I was raised in the forge. He treated me like a son."

She was quiet for a beat for she couldn't sense how to answer appropriately. "I'm sorry..."

"Why?" He looked at her sharply, and she regretted her sympathy. "It is better to work than to starve. I was fortunate he kept me."

Again, she was silent, and he began eating once more which she took to mean he wasn't angry. "What became of your family?"

He chewed a piece of vegetable and looked over her shoulder thoughtfully before returning his attention to her face. "I don't know." Her chin had fallen to her chest, burdened by such a tale and the understood implications, and only lifted once more when he sternly said, "You'll think twice now before calling your brothers arrogant."

As he suspected, her eyes darted up to him in a guilty way and appeared the more hurt when he chuckled before he could stop himself.

"I'm joking, Iliana."

She exhaled a stifled breath and managed to smile weakly, but her cheeks seemed stained a permanent red as if the flush had been burned into her skin. He thought it suited her, visibly displaying the naive kindness to her nature that was so endearing. It seemed unending and untainted by age, and it was far more palpable than any false smile hung from a worn face.

"It's a poor joke," she countered and flashed her gaze at him though fighting away a smile of her own. Their regards locked sharing a moment of mutual appreciation and amusement, made the more tangible from the underlying tension feeding it. "I should leave before my brothers take notice..."

He stood with her, and she granted him a subdued look. "Sit," she prompted. "I'll let myself out."

Ignoring her request, he remained standing to at least follow her retreat across the small space with his dark eyes. "Thank you for the meal."

She glanced over her shoulder as she reached the threshold and smiled a final time. "We have a deal, blacksmith," she reminded him in a tone bolder than she usually held, and it heralded a new friction between them. But she ducked out the door before she could buckle beneath it.

‡‡‡

"When was this?"

"Last night," Galen answered and dipped his head, dabbing at the sweat beading across his brow. The incessant stress had him perspiring no matter the chill covering the lands and nearly shitting blood as another pummeling cramp reminded him, making him double over and lean more heavily upon the table. Between his gritting teeth, he finished, "After the feast, My Lord."

All at once, Savas' fist landed on the table top, sending a tremor across the wood which sent cups jostling and Galen recoiling. Still bent over his curled fist, Savas' icy eyes struck out at his subordinate, and one finger pointed accusingly. "I told you," he growled with his lips curling back.

Galen swallowed heavily and sputtered, "My Lord, I-"

"I told you!" he bellowed until the blood rushed into his face and spurred the fierce flash of his gaze. As soon as the gust of rage came, it receded like the King easing back into his chair. His eyes searched the darkness creeping around them, his head jerking from side to side, and he muttered, "The wolves around me… Do you hear them, Galen?"

"Highness…"

"They howl for the end. They would have me burn! They would have me fall!" His hands were claws on the arms of the chair, gripping so tightly the bones arched at severe angles like talons and his nails dug into the grain of the wood.

"No one would betray you. They're young –_passionate_," his counselor attempted through heaving breaths.

One word focused Savas' attention like dangling a fresh piece of meat before a hungry predator, and his head tilted with Galen in his sights, wholly engrossed and jaw quaking beneath his beard. "Tell me, Galen. Do you think me stupid?" His brows lifted sarcastically. "Do I look like an imbecile to you? Do you think I'm the sort of ass who would mistake a lover's tryst for a _conspiracy_!" His words drew him forward from his chair with the way they sucked the air out of him, making his waist contract to squeeze out the last searing breath, and he paused as though poised to strike out at his subordinate and suddenly retreated into the depth of his seat once more. Two fingers applied pressure to his temple where a flickering vein poked through the thin skin.

"The Princes favor you," he attempted a last time and felt sick with the tension wrought in the room. A flint could light the dense air. "Look how they agreed to the engagement, and-and… and the hunt! They want to please you, My King. They would never conspire against you!"

His counselor's words had an astonishing effect, causing Savas to withdraw completely into his chair as his face released its iron grip on his contorted fury, and with these few words, he seemed abruptly pacified.

Galen doubted himself so fortunate and dabbed at his brow once more while muttering a prayer to Zeus beneath his breath. _Steal his rage and give him perception!  
_

* * *

**Author's Note: **Hey dolls! This one was fast, but it is also the shortest of my chapters thus far :) I hope you all enjoyed the glimpse into Damian's past, and I doubt anyone can guess what will happen in the next chapter with he and Iliana... hehe_  
_

Thanks yet again to Miss AmyLNelson for the super sweet review! I'm really pleased to know you enjoyed the flashback with Haemon & Hector. There will be more to come, and some with Myrina too of course :) Savas is paranoid to say the least haha He has seen his stepbrother's family brutally murdered so maybe he's worried he's next. Aurora is after all the only one who survived and has more right to the throne than him (which I'll explain better in another chapter or two) so he's got reason to think she's plotting against him... Nothing's ever easy right? haha Sometimes a man's gotta be a dick to learn how not to be a dick -as you said, exhibit A: Hector hahaha He was a dick on multiple occasions, and well, like father like son is all I can say ;) Thanks for the review, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well xoxo


	7. Short-Lived Glories & Eternal Flaws

Chapter 7  
"Short-Lived Glories & Eternal Flaws"

Her palm explored the folds of fabric draped across the growing globe, and when she added pressure to her touch, she could test the soft warmth of her skin, see how malleable it was in places, firmer in others. Sera's fingers on her wrist guided her like a compass to a map, and after a moment of searching, she seemed pleased with the spot she settled upon though Iliana felt as blind as ever, only intrigued and excited by the possibility. All at once, a slight bump resounded against her palm, and a grin overtook her features as her chestnut eyes darted up to look at Sera who was beaming as well.

"He's strong," she said and removed her hand though her fingers still tingled with the sensation that never ceased to astonish her no matter the number of pregnant bellies she had seen and touched.

"Yes," Sera agreed and rubbed a hand idly over her swollen belly, "and he grows more each day. I can't imagine getting any bigger." Her brow knit slightly at the prospect with the threat of the heat, the sleepless nights, and the pressure building in her back, but in the end, she would be rewarded with a beautiful child and that made any distress bearable if not wholly worth the pain.

"Pregnancy suits you," Eione chimed in from her position at the table where she neatly crossed her legs and pushed back her cuticles. "Do you remember when I was pregnant with Chara? I looked like I'd swallowed a boulder…" The same babe sat in her mother's lap and wrestled with a doll in her clumsy fingers. The doll fell onto the floor, causing Chara to fret with kicking legs and straining arms, and Eione promptly swept up the toy, handed it to her daughter before she took crying, and cooed, "A very pretty boulder."

"She's petite like you," Sera pointed out and continued to massage her stomach. "I have all ideas he'll be as tall as his father… I'm afraid they'll have to cut him out."

"They won't," Eione assured her. "You shouldn't worry so."

"Didn't you?" she returned simultaneously accusing and gentle. "You were crying when your contractions began and saying how frightened you were."

"And you told me to be strong for my baby and pray to the gods, and I will do the same for you."

Sera glanced at Iliana who had grown quiet during this exchange and placed a hand over her elbow with an apologetic smile. "I don't mean to exclude you. We should speak about something else."

"I don't mind," the youngest woman assured both of them. "It's only natural you'd want to talk about this, and you should."

"Yes, but it's better to take her mind away from it for a while," Eione decided. "And I'm curious to know how your gift is coming along." She quirked her brow innocently, but her feline eyes were brimming with mischievous thoughts.

Iliana flushed unconsciously and bent her face to consider her lap where she busied her fingers with mending one of Aeneas' robes where wear had loosened the seams.

Sera straightened in curiosity upon seeing this reaction and wondered, "What gift?"

"For Aeneas, for his birthday," Eione answered. "She's having Damian forge him something…" She smiled impishly with her gaze completely devoted to appreciating Iliana's growing agitation but directed to her sister-in-law, "It's quite clever, isn't it?"

"Yes…" Sera pursed her lips briefly and laced her fingers at the base of her belly. This little affair kindled by stolen glances was the worst kept secret in Alba Longa, and she was hesitant to show the same enthusiasm as Eione. "You've spoken with him, then?"

Iliana paused in her work and glanced nervously through her lashes at Sera, knowing despite the woman's forgivingly neutral tone that she would be the one to disapprove of her doings. "Yes," she muttered and bent her neck at a harsher angle seeming to wish to burrow her face into her chest if possible.

Eione broke into light laughter like wind against a chime which betrayed Iliana's guilty desires, and the young woman didn't dare to see Sera's reaction. "You must tell us everything! What is he like? He's always so silent with that sort of masculine, detached attitude. It's a bit dangerous, don't you think?"

Iliana's neck could barely hold the exaggerated way with which she hung her head and thus missed the severe daggers Sera's eyes threw to silence Eione's loose tongue.

"I meant nothing by it," she said heatedly. "I only wonder how a man can live in a city for more than a year and have scarcely a friend to his name."

"Perhaps he's shy," Sera mediated in her endlessly kind way. "Alba Longa is a close knit community. It's difficult to gain our trust. I'm sure he'll acclimate in time."

"What do you say, Iliana? How well do you know our blacksmith?" Eione turned attentions to the mute young woman once more, and this time there was no diversion to allow her a graceful exit.

Sucking in a breath, she straightened her neck and winced at the lengthened muscles now struggling to tighten again and bear the weight of her head. Still her eyes were somewhat downcast, and she chewed at her bottom lip and aimlessly rearranged the thread in her lap. "He-" She swallowed and peeked at the two woman intently watching her before she continued, "He is a man of few words, but he is kind and has done much to help us." Glancing up, she realized both Sera and Eione's face were vacant with mild disappointment from such a diplomatic response, and Iliana fretted to explain herself. "When I asked him to forge the sword for Father, he said I needn't pay him."

"How generous of him!" Eione gasped grandly.

"I'm sure he expects some form of payment…"

"Sera!"

The pregnant woman frowned unapologetically and looked toward Iliana who flushed a deeper shade.

"No, no, I've never… I mean I don't," she halted abruptly and closed her eyes at her nervous stuttering which seemed all the more incriminating when she had done nothing even remotely close to feeding her desires. "He only asked that I bring him meals when I can. He has no time to cook and no one to care for him."

"Such kindness!" Eione declared and didn't spare a brief smack against Sera's arm. "And what a perfect excuse to visit with him. He must be lonely spending his days in the forge."

"Do your brothers know about this?"

"It is a surprise, Sera!" Eione scoffed. "She doesn't need to spoil it by telling her brothers!"

"Nereus would keep your secret," she said pointedly and fixed her gaze on Iliana in a manner that caused the young woman to drop her regard in guilt.

"And forbid her from seeing him again!"

When it was evident Iliana would not meet Sera's eyes, the woman turned them on Eione, revealing her intent in her resolved expression.

"Oh, get off your pedestal, Sera! Let the poor girl have a bit of excitement."

"What will the others say when they notice her arriving alone to visit his home again and again?"

"What they will, and at Aeneas' feast, she'll give him his gift and all will understand."

"Gossip is not so easily stifled! And suppose he has the wrong impression of their arrangement? Suppose he expects to continue seeing her?"

"Is that so terrible?" Eione countered near a growl, and her feline eyes flattened to sharp slivers. "She likes him. If you'd let the girl speak and not lecture her on moral behavior, she might tell you she wants him to court her!"

"Then let her tell me!"

All at once, both attentions pierced Iliana in their depths, and the woman wished to melt into her seat and slide onto the floor for the position they forced her into. Her chestnut eyes remained fixed on the robes in her hands, and she frowned as she realized several stitches had missed her mark as testament to her nerves.

"You've nothing to be ashamed of," Eione prompted. "Tell her how you feel."

Yet again, no sympathy was afforded to her allowing her to retreat from these baring questions, and reluctantly, she explained, "I don't know how to describe it… I've never had a man show interest in me, and it terrifies and excites and embarrasses me. I'm not even sure he is interested in me, or if I've imagined the entire thing." She exhaled dejectedly and rearranged the fabric in her lap. "Sometimes I think he must laugh at me – at how I behave around him."

Without hesitation, Eione's hand extended to grasp onto Iliana's fingers, and the woman squeezed them encouragingly. "I've seen how he looks at you… He may laugh, but I doubt it is at you. I'm sure he only laughs at what a lucky ass he is to have captured your attention."

"You don't understand," Iliana muttered, embarrassed by how such an explanation tempted her, and she at last looked at her sister-in-law. "I'm not like you. I never learned how to attract men, how to engage them. I'm not beautiful or witty or-"

"Hush!" Eione interrupted, and a critical frown shaded across her attractive face before she offered Chara to Sera's care since the woman had retreated from the conversation now that it had taken this turn. She then drew closer to Iliana and took her hands once more. "Women need complex, torrid tales to feed them, but men are simple. Show a little interest, and they will follow you. Make them feel wanted, and they will bow to you. Dare them, and they will rise to the occasion."

Such direct words made her uneasy coupled with Eione's proximity, and Iliana dropped her gaze. "Don't look away," Eione chastised immediately, and Iliana rushed embarrassedly to consider her sister-in-law as she demanded. Seeing her agitation, the woman drew her fingers along Iliana's temple, pushing back the short curls framing her face and tracing the edge of her cheek. "You speak with your eyes… Let them say what you wish you could." Her fingers continued their patient advance, then falling to find the angle of Iliana's jaw which quivered at the gentle touch, and Eione's lips drew into a soft smile while she shifted even closer. Between them their gazes kindled an indecipherable pressure to rest on Iliana's breast, and she struggled to appear calm and decided as the woman continued speaking. "Men lust before they love. Trap him in your eyes, and he will be drawn to you not by your body but by _you_, by what you tell him." Her fingers brushed Iliana's neck patiently pushing back the hair from her shoulder to reveal the smooth curve of her throat and arch of her shoulder, and Iliana found her attention abruptly torn between the seductive caress and the weight of Eione's almond-shaped eyes bearing ever nearer. "But what will he yearn for if not your breasts, your thighs, your hips?" Her knuckles followed the line of Iliana's arm, nothing compared to the shock of her hot breath brushing across Iliana's lips as she whispered, "A kiss."

Shamefully, Iliana jerked away and looked over her shoulder, blushing and heart racing within her chest as she realized what Eione had managed so easily.

The same woman laughed lightly and eased back into her seat while lamenting, "Oh, I remember what it was like to be that sweet."

"Were you ever?" Sera asked sharply, her lips depressed into a permanent frown.

"Yes," Eione responded and found Iliana's shy eyes once more to offer a candid, forgiving wink. "Once, before I met my husband."

Voices met the atrium like an explosion of noise to cut the tension of the kitchen. Within moments, the men ambled inside, Aeneas at the rear, and he wondered pleasantly, "What have I done that the gods bless me with three beautiful women in my home?"

"I believe the proper question is what _haven't_ you done," Eione challenged and grinned mischievously, earning an intrigued grin from her father-in-law.

"True," Aeneas murmured under his breath, allowing the one word to linger on his lips and adoring it in the way he did all women.

Nereus found his way to his wife and bent with a hand upon her shoulder to reward her a loving kiss on her temple. "Shouldn't you be resting?"

"Yes," she confessed and touched her husband's hand, "but it's always refreshing to have a moment with my sisters."

"Talking about which men you're keen on?" Ariston taunted and settled into the seat beside his little sister who didn't hesitate to prod him roughly with her elbow.

"Perhaps," Eione said haughtily and took her daughter into her arms once more. "Odd… Your name wasn't mentioned."

"I'd hope not! Not from my own sisters at least."

"Not from any woman," she warned with a playful smirk.

"Have you heard word from Haemon and Ascanius?" Iliana wondered loudly to be heard over the small conversations breaking among their group.

"Not yet," Aeneas confessed and rested his hand on the edge of the table, adding his weight to it to ease the ache in his knee from an old war injury, "but I expect news from them soon. I imagine a rider is on his way here as we speak."

"Do you think they'll be along soon as well? My daughter's distraught without her father around," Eione chimed in.

"These negotiations are complex and require time to sort them. I'd like to think my sons will return soon, but there is no way to be certain –not until word arrives."

"It's been little over a week, Eione," Nereus contributed. "I wouldn't expect them before the month's gone."

"And what of Umbria?" Iliana asked once more, and without explanation, the men fell silent, glancing at each other in a wordless exchange not privy to the women.

"None of your concern for the moment," Nereus answered and squeezed his wife's shoulder. "Come. Let's go home for the afternoon."

Sera gathered herself with as much elegance as a pregnant woman can from the table, but Aeneas wondered first, "Nereus, a word before you leave."

"Of course." His son followed him into the corridor, and Ariston grunted to himself as some annoyance at his exclusion.

"Iliana," Sera wondered with a kind smile, "would you walk with me to the door?"

Confused but willing to be of service, the young woman stood, took Sera's elbow, and helped her to the atrium where she paused to wait for her husband to follow. In the interim, her true purpose was revealed as she pinned Iliana within her sights and said, "I don't think what you're doing with the blacksmith is wise. I know you and Eione think I hold some moral superiority, but I do care about your happiness and I know how tempting companionship can be when you're young." She gathered her breath shortly and smiled again. "All I want to say is don't do anything you wouldn't want your brothers to find out about… Do you understand?"

Iliana sustained her sincere look, searching those amber depths and feeling humbled by their wisdom, and she nodded her head.

"Are you angry with me? I only want you to understand the greater implications of what you're-"

"Please," she interrupted and smiled weakly. "Don't talk about it anymore."

Sera's lips pursed as though poised to carry on regardless of her sister-in-law's plea, but perhaps she saw a flicker of desperation and shame to Iliana's features. For once that afternoon, she kept her mouth shut, and soon Nereus joined them in the atrium to escort his wife home. Eione followed shortly after them, excusing herself with Chara's needing to lie down for the afternoon, and in their wake, Ariston and Iliana were left to the kitchen where the latter prepared a small plate of food for her father and brother. Her impromptu confrontation with Sera had left her head heavy and stomach weak, and she felt a bit dizzy in her thoughts as she wandered about the kitchen. Ariston told her a tale from the day, but she was deaf to its details, only aware of the distant drone of his voice carrying on without provocation. It was only minutes later that her silence aggravated her brother.

"Iliana?" he questioned impatiently, and his little sister bobbed her head up from her task to look at him. "Are you even listening?"

Initially, her chestnut eyes searched the void of space between them, jockeying between the truth and a simple like, and she decided, "Yes."

"What did I just say?"

The young woman exhaled her defeat and rolled her eyes while turning to consider the fruit she was slicing. She felt no embarrassment, but she was irritated how Ariston imposed himself on her thoughts when she so needed the quiet and solitude to reexamine her situation.

"What's wrong? You've had that dazed look since we arrived home."

"Nothing," she muttered calmly and took another piece of fruit to slice.

"I might be dumb to a lot of things," he said and leaned against the table beside where his sister worked to be sure she couldn't avoid him, "but I know when a woman says nothing, it means something."

"This time it is nothing. I'm only tired," she lied pitifully and ignored her brother's interrogative gaze.

Unlike Haemon, he didn't have the patience or level of attentiveness to keep up this investigation for long. As she suspected, he folded with a careless shrug and spoke, "Whatever you say, little sister… I'll be in Father's chambers."

Finally alone, her knife was abandoned from her grip, and she rested her empty palms on the table top to support how she hung her head and waited for the pressure of the blood building behind her forehead. Her eyes felt weightless, able to see clear of the shroud drawn across them, but her mind was leaden with the warnings Sera had shared with her. They weren't unknown concerns to the young woman, but she had found a forgiveness in Eione's acceptance, an ability to blind herself to the negatives of this course of action. But Sera reminded her that there was a price for every choice, and she worried what she would pay if she continued this sly plan of hers. _It's too late to give up now,_ she mused, and she picked up her knife and continued her work.

_At times you need listen to what your heart wants_. Her mother had taught her that, using her own marriage to Hector as evidence to suit her claim. They had fought long years to have each other. They had shared a bed and four healthy children, but war plagued them within years of their marriage. Perhaps there was a price, and they hadn't paid in full; and so Hector was taken. Such an assumption made Iliana uneasy with a treasonous twisting of her gut, and she hurriedly swept the sliced fruit onto a platter, wiped her hands, and picked up the plate to bring to her father and brother. Was it possible they still paid for an unsettled debt? Iliana shook her head to rid herself of the thought, but it latched into the deepest base of her skull to remind her in her weakest moments of the short-lived glories and eternal flaws of man.

‡‡‡

Ash-colored tendrils of steam curled from the surface, a cloudy pool where two pale peaks prodded through the water's veil. Milk gave the bath its cream color, honey melted into a sweet aroma, and both gave her numb skin a velvety texture beneath the surface. Yet her boney knees dared out of the warm cover where night kissed the skin and drew a tremor down her spine. She retreated deeper into the wooden tub until the nape of her neck balanced against the bath's lip and the water rose to cover her shoulders. It was so opaque not even the faintest outline of her naked body beneath was visible, and gradually, she allowed her legs to straighten as much as the tub's narrow width and length would allow until she disappeared beneath the water's surface: her pale skin blended perfectly so that any faint glimmer of her self dissolved.

The heat blanketed her and drew beads of sweat along her brow, some burying into her hair, others sliding down her neck. A fire crackled noisily to her right, and she rolled her head atop the wooden to edge to gaze at the flames darting and shivering against the subtle breeze. The same cool touch chilled her features, and she wished to bury herself completely beneath the water's edge, to be consumed, surrounded, compressed by the hot water. But it would do her no good to wet her hair this late. It was too thick to dry swiftly, and the cold would make her sick. She cupped her palms and brought some of the warm water to her face, relishing in the brief comfort, but in its place the cold of the room swept once more.

Aggravated, she rose up from her sunken escape and reached for the bronze chalice of wine beside the tub's edge. The deep cup was half-emptied by this hour, and another sip nudged the forgiving weight of its numbness across her. Her body was leaden, eyes heavy, every ounce of her exhausted, and she nearly spilled her cup for her gracelessness in setting it down once more. Her elbows overflowed from the sides, allowing her shoulders to prop against the tub's edge, and the water receded enough that the gold glittered in the light. Its flickering penetrated the fog hanging across her eyes and attracted her attention to fall to her naked chest where the sliver of opal hung beautiful and heavy. A seductive proposition of his hold gripping her, but she had seen the true depth of his authority mere hours after their engagement was announced. It was far more rough and unforgiving, a salient flash of what she had feared all along, and it seemed a foreboding of what awaited her on their wedding night and years to follow after it. No benevolence, no compassion, no sympathy… If she stirred anything in him, all that was revealed to her was disdain.

At a foolish age when her empty mind preoccupied itself with wanderings of a husband, a first kiss, and a lasting love, she had envisioned the bonding of two lives as some act fueled by passion and fondness, like she had witnessed in her parents. _Perhaps they were better pretenders…_ Her mind immediately corralled and attacked the thought for its treasonous voice against the tender memories she guarded of her family, but the few words called upon a worn ache lingering somewhere deep inside her gut. This muscle was attached to her sensation of emptiness, and how it twisted and strained, strong from years of training. In these moments, she imagined the conversations she would hold with her mother, father, sister, and brothers about her life. They did nothing to ease the ache or soothe the tremor inside her, but they were addictive and her mind was weak from the hour and the wine. _Perhaps they would know how to make him like me…_

She took the opal between her fingertips and pressed firmly until the smoothed edges buried into her skin and found the bone beneath. Impulsively, she turned the stone to her lips and rolled it across the flesh. It was warm from the water, and her dewy breath fogged the surface unnoticed by her for her lids had fallen, giving her full attention to the slow rotations. The unyielding touch was reminiscent of his siege, but their collision, despite his roughness, had been different. Amid the coarse span of his beard, his lips were soft on her own and had savored every inch he desired while she, inexperienced and stunned, submitted without contributing in the least. Recalling how inelegantly she had handled herself caused a crevice to draw between her brows. Her damps lashes flickered with the bothered movements of her eyes beneath the thin skin of her lids. She glimpsed at the light of the fire in the gap but banished it a moment later. The black calmed her, and she submitted further into the embrace of the water, sensing herself trapped beneath the grip of his hands and immovable mass of his body. Her lips parted to draw a breath and unconsciously stroked the stone. The nerves pricked across the soft skin, and intrigued, her lips closed once more. They massaged the stone with no sense of the reason or purpose, commanded by a mind lost to the memory of an encounter which terrified and provoked her.

At the height of her private thoughts, she caught a rustling unnatural to the space. The stone was abandoned in a moment, and her eyes shot open guilty and embarrassed and directed to the threshold at her right across the fire. The light caught her gaze, and she could decipher little of the dark reach beyond it. Her eyes were prolonged in focusing her sights, and she blinked forcefully, struggling to make them obey despite the weight of wine and exhaustion of the day. A fresh chill gathered the hairs upon the back of her neck, but it was not a night wind that touched her. No matter the warmth of the bath, her body had gone cold, and she drew closer to the edge of the tub where her nakedness was hidden from sight. The shadows were dense. She sensed something beyond them, but she had no weapon but her gaze and her voice. The latter fled from her, and she merely parted her lips though no sound dared escape the tight embrace of her throat.

_This is foolish, Aurora,_ her mind chastised her even as her eyes continued to strain. _There is nothing in the dark!_

The dark shifted, and her heart crumbled into her gut with the dead weight of terror. Her fingers curled around the edge holding tight as if attaching herself to the tub where none could force her away. Her body coiled deeper against the side, both hiding and preparing to strike, but she was stripped of anything that could protect herself. As though realizing the fight, a figure emerged, and she jerked prematurely sending the water noisily pitching while her tongue loosened enough to emit a rocky screech.

Clay shattered on the stone floor as Cybele startled much like her mistress, and each woman stared at the other through eyes wide as disks. The servant was the first to soften, and she snapped her tongue against the back of her teeth and considered the small bottle of perfume she had brought for Aurora which now only benefited the floor. When her attention swept toward the young woman once more, she found the Princess reclined against the tub with her palms to her forehead and heels of her hands digging into her eyes. They released a moment later and fell to cup her heaving breast.

Distrustfully, Aurora glanced toward Cybele but appeared much more concerned with what lay behind the old woman until the latter glanced suspiciously over her shoulder.

"Are you alone?" she wondered in a strained tone.

"Of course, My Lady," Cybele murmured and side-stepped around the broken pieces of clay to approach the Princess. "I thought you had fallen asleep you've been in here so long."

"Long?" she challenged, breathless. "Barely an hour has passed."

"Nearly two," Cybele corrected and glanced disapprovingly at the cup of wine keeping her lady company. "You'll catch cold if you remain any longer, and you need your rest. The hunt is tomorrow."

A renewed sense of obligation assailed her, and of all the ways she had considered her betrothed this night, the upcoming hunt had somehow evaded her consideration. No matter Cybele's warning, the reminder only made Aurora want to sustain her haven a while longer.

"Come," the servant prompted impatiently and unfolded the linen cloth brought to dry her off. The Princess did no such thing, and Cybele assumed her too affected by the wine to manage her body. Her boney hands delved into the warm water and found Aurora's arms pulling forcefully until the woman bounded out of the tub. Though Aurora was reluctant to believe Cybele's timing, her body, or its unresponsiveness rather, warned her enough of the hours spent soaking in the tub. It seemed the water had penetrated her pores and dissolved her muscles to pulp so that she gripped to the old woman's thin shoulders to balance her weight as her knees and thighs quivered with the effort to stand. Despite her age, Cybele sustained her mistress' arms draped about her and reached to smack the back of Aurora's thigh purposefully. Her knee recoiled on instinct, and Cybele guided her bent leg across the tub's edge and to the floor where the cold of the palace found her once more. A shiver traveled up her leg to make her chest shudder.

"Come," Cybele commanded shortly once more, and Aurora hurried to step completely from the warm water. The heat faded into the heavy pulse of her body, and the chill drew denser and denser against her. She released Cybele now that she was grounded to wrap her arms around her naked chest, and for whatever reason, her attention was drawn to the dark corner once more which felt alive as it had moments before. The old woman bent with a short grunt and wrapped the linen around Aurora's leg, rubbing in rough, brusque strokes to dry her calf and next her thigh.

"I understand why sleep evades you," she commented and rearranged the towel in her grip to a drier section so that she might consider Aurora's other leg with the same aggressive motions that nearly sent the woman off her footing. "You are eager for tomorrow. I'm sure the Prince will find the greatest stag to offer for you."

"Yes," she answered dryly, aggravated to be treated like a child, shivering, and exhausted, "I've long dreamt of the day a man would kill for me."

"He'll be your husband soon." Cybele unraveled one of Aurora's arms by her wrist and began drying it as well. "You shouldn't speak ill of him."

"Have I?" she asked while gazing toward the void of shadows and seeming to speak to their headless eyes.

"It is an honor to participate in the hunt. It was custom once when I was a girl before days grew dark and people forgot about paying tribute." The old servant wrapped the linen cloth about Aurora finally, and the woman gathered the edges tightly around her skin pale and covered in chills.

"They hunt to feed their families –not for a game."

"And you think this is a game?" Her beady eyes were the darker and glistened in the dim lighting making them seem like two stones set within her wrinkled features. "It has been decided. Already we have begun packing your things for the trip to Latium. This is your life, and you would do well not to make an enemy of your husband lest you wage war the rest of your years."

"I don't want to go to war with him," she muttered bitterly as memories of their encounter nights ago flickered through her mind. She brushed past the old servant and hurried toward the door leading to her chambers. The night and sole member who played audience to her tirade made her bold enough to continue, "It would be foolish knowing what a shrewd killer he is. My brothers are infatuated with tales of his victories." For men who had never had to fight to save their necks, they were easily roused by the rumors they had heard of the Alban Prince and his brothers.

"_They say he bladed a man with such force his body was torn in two!"_

"_That's impossible," Davos challenged, but his regard locked with his brother's each suspicious and fascinated by the idea._

"He's a soldier," Cybele corrected, interrupting her mistress' thoughts, and closed the door behind them.

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes," she answered curtly and stripped away the linen cloth from Aurora, leaving her naked near the fire pit in the center of her chambers, while she fetched her sleeping robes.

The young woman wrapped her arms about herself once more, pressing her knees together to hold in the chill, and drew near enough to the open flames that her skin burned from the proximity. "My uncle might as well have sold me to the Sabines Tribes… They have no sense of nobility, no glorious capital, no right to their titles."

Cybele lifted the gown overhead, and Aurora bent to slip her hands through the armholes while the old woman pulled the fabric down her body. She offered Aurora's fur-lined robe next and motioned for her to sit at the stool near the fire. The Princess consented and wrapped the layers of fabric around her to smother the chill from her skin, and Cybele took a comb to Aurora's hair next, beginning at the ends damp from falling into the water and carefully detangling them.

"The Prince and his family may have more noble blood than you assume," she suggested and moved her comb closer to Aurora's scalp.

"There is nothing noble in stealing someone's lands. That does not make you royalty."

Cybele appeared silenced for the time, and she gathered another section of hair to attend before she confessed, "I've heard rumors of your betrothed."

Aurora's stoic features flickered with interest, and she twisted her head above her shoulders to gaze back the old woman. "From whom?"

"Other servants, but they claim to have spoken with Prince Haemon's men."

"And what did they say?"

Her attention was wholly directed at her simple task as though reluctant to commit to this path of conversation even if she had addressed it.

Aurora was not so easily dissuaded, and she caught Cybele's boney wrist and forced the old woman to look at her face. "Tell me."

She hesitated still, making Aurora's grip tighten meaningfully, and at length she revealed, "They spoke of a great city in the East –farther than any Apulian has ever traveled."

"Greece?" she asked incredulously, but Cybele's expression was fixed in its significance.

"Beyond Greece."

Aurora's frown returned tenfold, and she twisted in her seat to consider the fire once more where she searched its shifting depths for the answer. The old map in her mind unraveled slowly and painfully, scouring for these mysterious lands, but there was nothing to meet her reach. In her twenty-six years, beyond Greece the world ended.

"That's impossible," she muttered, but it resonated with the memory of her brother's words and made her all the more uncertain.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Hi my lovelies! Forgive the slight delay. You know how it goes! I realize it's 7 chapters in now, but for those of you who have followed me, you know I tend to keep my cards close to my chest until I have the hand I want. That is to say, assume I have much up my sleeves, and trust me to reveal all when the timing's right :) Hint: one of my huge plot points is coming to a head in the next chapter, and it will be the catalyst for all! I'm so excited like you don't even know… haha Also, I know I promised something very unexpected between Damian and Iliana in this chapter, but I decided to postpone my idea because I'm just torturous like that (really I just rearranged my chapter division :X)

Thank you as always to AmyLNelson and klandgraf2007 for the sweet reviews!

Amy: I realize there wasn't really in depth brother and sister time, but I tried to incorporate a little in this chapter where I could! The Agamemnon ball is rolling, but I suspect it's not at all in the way you're anticipating which brings me great pleasure because you know how I love surprises and you've always been able to read my mind and guess where I'm going! I do have quite a bit going at once like I have my hands in all the pots simultaneously (is that how the saying goes?), but be warned not all of them are meant to play out. I'll remain mysterious and leave it at that. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I'm excited to get to work on the next chapter and hopefully blow your mind :D xoxo

klandgraf: You're such a sweetheart for the PM. Thank you :) And I feel so special that you reviewed to the other chapter as well! Haemon is complicated haha And I was initially frustrated in the beginning of the story because I didn't feel he was coming across the way I see him in my head. I think I'm starting to depict him better, and in the next chapter in particular you're going to get a fun taste of him! I'm glad you liked the interaction between the siblings (here as well?) and that you think the sword will be bombing cause I kinda do too! Thanks so much for the review, and I hope you liked this chapter xoxo


	8. The Hunt Begins

Chapter 8  
"The Hunt Begins"

Dawn broke through the shroud of night with pale rays to cast aside the chill of darkness hanging across their lands. The hunting party gathered beneath its heaving crest and treaded across the barren grounds. At the point of the pack, Haemon rode beside Savas in stark contrast to the Apulian King. The latter donned his lavish regalia with a heavy cape finished by thick furs, his golden crown fitted to his pale head, and numerous rings skewering his strong fingers where they held fast to the reigns while the Prince accomplished a more austere appearance. His black robes bore no refinement aside from the gold edges, and only a plain cloak hung around his massive shoulders to fight away the chill. His sole adornments were fitting to his purpose: a dagger at his waist and quiver of arrows and bow slung across his back. He surveyed the forest crowding around them with the comfortable ease of a man assured victory, and she watched his head full of chestnut curls oscillate from side to side as she followed behind him.

The air was crisp and sweet beneath the forest's canopy, and day's growth could be monitored by the shade of light scattered throughout the woods –fast shifting from white to golden. She urged the collar of her cloak higher upon her shoulders where its fur collar tickled her features and swept away the cold numbing her hands. Day would bring warmer weather now that the rains had passed, but night held its grip a while longer in the face of the party daring outside the palace walls. Her tongue was heavy with thirst and her body aching slightly at every stride of her stallion, forcing her to recall the cup of wine which had been refilled numerous times and kept her company long into the night. Its motivation rode ahead of her, and she latched her eyes into the span of his back made larger by the draping of his cloak and wished they would dismiss him to his task soon lest she find reason to admire the way the curls gathered around his powerful neck and the occasional glimpse at his sharp profile if he tossed his attention far enough. Still, they rode on, and she loathed how she inspected him without shame to those who might notice. He would be her husband soon, and their newly bought association rewarded her at least this much, the freedom to study him.

"How long do these hunts usually take?"

Her posture bobbed into perfect alignment as she turned to acknowledge Ascanius who had maneuvered to ride beside her. Even the early light seemed to suit his handsome features: the wrinkles across his brow gave him a more robust appearance like a man wise with age, and his blue eyes were bright and sharp where they focused on her. He smiled pleasantly, and she strained to mirror his expression.

"It depends on the man, Prince," she answered coolly and turned once more to gaze at her betrothed. "Some men meet their prey within hours of tracking, and I've seen others who have lingered until nearly night to find the perfect offering… Which do you suppose your brother is?"

He grinned and glanced at Haemon who perhaps heard their exchange and felt no need to participate. "I don't know," he confessed before looking confidentially toward the Princess once more and lowering his tone. "He's both capable and stubborn as an ass."

To this, Haemon's head stretched to offer his brother a loaded glance, and Ascanius laughed in his charming way which caused an off-center smirk to grace his older brother's features. Feeling her eyes, his chin dipped slightly and allowed him to catch her out of the edge of his gaze. She met it briefly, long enough to know its weight, and looked away, and the Prince twisted to face their advance once more. Such was the game among them, but neither seemed amused by its insurmountable divide.

Finally, the King stopped and announced, "We'll part here." The company gathered to bear witness progressively came to a halt, and conversations waned in order to hear Savas speak. He addressed Haemon first, explaining, "The woods become too dense farther ahead to continue together. It's best that you go along on foot."

"The trail you spoke of is ahead?" the Prince asked while probing the woods with his sight to assess what he could from its endless symmetry.

"Yes," Savas replied and only then seemed to recall his advice. Along this thought, he acknowledged his niece. "It is customary for the woman to see the man off. Aurora will show you how to reach it." He turned toward her then and wondered, "You recall where it is, don't you?" It appeared less a genuine question than an imposition of his will that she guide the Prince to make a show of her support and their upcoming nuptials.

"Yes," she answered evenly though was not eager to abandon her horse and tread through the forest in her current dress, but the decision was made.

Haemon dismounted before her and circled back to the side of her horse to help her alight as well. She doubted it a sincere act of chivalry as perhaps a show for those around them of his goodwill toward her, but regardless, she balanced her palms on his shoulders while he took her waist and helped her gently to the ground. Their eyes caught in the middle, a spark of recognition between their bodies from the last time they were so close. At the tremble in her gut, she released his shoulders and turned away, leaving him to consider her avoidant stance as usual, and he afforded himself a rare moment to drink her in. A slender gold diadem draped across her forehead and was braided into her straw blonde hair, and beneath her cloak, a sanguine red gown fit her shape to symbolize the blood of the hunt and the blood of their union. It summoned memories of the first time they collided in the corridor outside the dining hall, but she had misled him with a spirited version of herself much shrouded behind this timid, ever-fearful mask she wore. Still, his eyes enjoyed the red upon her skin, making the tone and texture creamy as milk, and he imagined it to taste as soft and sweet as her lips had nights ago. The temptation was renewed knowing how those lips, that pale skin, and the fluid curves hidden beneath her dress were his as much this day as they would be at his last. He was lured by the woman her body promised but continually shut off by the frightened girl hiding in her eyes.

"I wish you a fruitful hunt, Prince," Savas said grandly and smiled in an amiable way uncharacteristic given his sharp moods. "Keep to the trail, and you'll find your prey within an hour's time."

"The gods willing," Haemon muttered with a smile of his own though more restrained. Already his attention was settling to consider his task like a hunter keen for the scent of blood.

"Don't disappoint your wife, brother," Ascanius chimed in, rather sarcastic but too charming to be ignored. "Kill something worthy of her beauty."

Unconsciously, her head turned to acknowledge Ascanius over her shoulder, and the man laughed, pleased to receive any reaction from the stoic Princess.

"And don't worry… I'll offer a cup to your first born while you're out."

"Can you contain yourself to one?" Haemon prodded.

"Ah, I'll wish you many children, brother," Ascanius replied with a grin, and the group laughed quietly at the brother's jesting as siblings would no matter their age or circumstances.

"It's time," Savas decided and revealed himself to be impatient to return within his palace. "The best hour to hunt is now. I leave you to it, and tonight we'll all drink to your success, Prince, when you've returned."

"You won't wait for me?" her quiet voice interrupted the rearranging of horses' hooves already turning to descend the trail yet again.

"My dear niece," Savas answered and chuckled humorlessly, "it would be selfish to require our guests to wait in the chill with empty bellies."

"And dangerous for her to ride alone," Haemon contributed in an unbending manner that surprised her.

"Of course, Prince. I'll leave two of my guards to protect her, and you'll have nothing to distract your thoughts."

"Then we will meet again when I return."

"May the gods give you a light foot and swift arrow."

Other members of the company murmured their wishes, but the group was turning to retreat to the warmth and comfort of the palace with only two guards lingering behind. They likewise dismounted, and Haemon's chestnut eyes made the revolution of studying their faces before considering his betrothed.

"This way," Aurora murmured while gathering the front of her dress in one palm, the other held fast to her reigns, and they set off deeper into the woods with only the trees and the silence to keep them company. The two guards remained at a respectful distance which unnerved the Princess, paranoid since she had felt the eyes on her in the corridor nights ago, but there was an unexpected solace to be had from his company –at least knowing he was bound to protect her and capable enough to be entrusted with such a task. The path was unworn and made more difficult by the rains. A rotting tree had split above its roots and fallen to block their path. Haemon wordlessly took the reigns from her, allowing her the chance to collect her dress in both hands and step across the trunk, but her progress halted abruptly at the sound of a screeching split.

Wincing and flushing, she turned to see the Prince untangling the ends of her dress from the bark to free her, and she ducked her head in embarrassment, muttering "Thank you" beneath her breath.

He merely took his turn and helped the horse across as well before they continued their journey. Her head abandoned its cover of hiding her blush to check their surroundings, and she adjusted their course the slightest to the west.

"You know the forest well," he acknowledged, and within the veil of woods, his robust voice felt louder among them.

For a moment, she peeked at him, trying to assess whether he was purposefully ironic to mock her or sincere. She gained nothing from her fleeting assessment, and she answered neutrally, "Yes. Better than most."

"I'm surprised that you come here still, considering."

She kept her pace, knowing she could let his comment trail into the oblivion of the world around them and maintain the strict guard protecting her, but Cybele's words echoed through her brain. _Don't make an enemy of your husband lest you wage war the rest of your days_. Spurred by the brief persuasion, she sought to translate it into something he could understand and thought of Alba Longa's riders. "If you fall off a horse, you get up and ride again. You don't blame the horse for your clumsiness… I don't blame the woods for being lost in them. I learned."

"It's not a matter of blame," he said, "but of the memories."

"It's important to remember. Our past molds us. If we forget, we deny part of ourselves."

She spoke with more conviction than he had heard in the time he had come to know her; it was evidence of her loyalty, all that she embodied, and he knew the burden well. "It is important to remember the past," he agreed while changing his grip on the reigns to a more comfortable position and guiding the horse on, "but keep your eyes on today."

Her shoulders stiffened at the constant reminder. Atlan's words might as well have come from her betrothed's lips, and the parallel felt prickly to her skin making the irritation crawl down her spin. She shuddered unconsciously and kept her pace. Perhaps it would have been better to keep the silence between them. The only relief was her sights catching the glistening of morning on the thin stream ahead of them. They were close to the river birthed in the northern mountains and snaking its way across Apulia to empty into the sea. The heavy rains had caused the river to flood, and this stream was a thin offshoot of its pregnant mother; but it offered Aurora a fortunate reprieve from their conversation.

"This stream," she said as they found their way into the slight clearing off the trees where the space between trunks was substantial enough to allow water to build, "will guide you to the river. There you'll see the path north toward the mountains, and that is where your hunt will begin, Prince."

Haemon surveyed the track he would take, perhaps mapping in his head his movements so that he might retrace them, and Aurora sensed his purpose.

"When it is time to return," she added, "you may follow the river here once more and head east to find the trail to the palace. I'm sure my uncle's left a guard and horse to return you… If you lose your way, find the river. The woods are vast and indistinguishable to an outsider, and the river is the easiest feature to orient yourself."

Now in the belly of the forest, faced with its infinite conformity, he had a better idea of what he had committed himself to. It was archaic as she had suggested nights before, one man setting off blindly into the forest all for the fortune of his marriage and the superstitious promise of a son. No matter his abrupt misgivings, his pride nipped at him to remind him he had the strength and mind to accomplish it without aid and without knowledge of the terrain. Yet, her advice hinted at a warning and piqued his interest. Could she possibly be concerned for him?

"I will return by afternoon," he decided, more a promise to himself than her, but he assumed it might offer her solace.

"That is wise. No one should linger in the forest for long."

He was further intrigued and smirked proudly. "I've faced armies in battle, Princess. A few trees don't frighten me."

Her eyes narrowed at the insinuation of her anxieties being ill founded from someone who had no stake in her land or her people or what haunted them. "There are some things you cannot kill with a sword," she said coldly, but the cracking of twigs and leaves distracted her. Reminded of their audience approaching them, her brief courage waned, and she bowed her head uncertainly between them. "There is nothing more I can tell you. I pray that your success be swift and that you return before nightfall."

Haemon studied her, seeing through the thin shroud she attempted to don. She was not a woman eager to be his wife, and she played the role poorly. But there was something lingering beneath the surface indistinguishable and murky, and for the flickering of a moment, he thought it was fear but for whom he couldn't decipher. "The guards will take you to the palace, and I'll return soon."

He saw those oddly colored eyes glancing through the veil of her lashes, and she seemed at once discomforted and relieved by his words. She nodded her head, and Haemon turned his attention above her tawny blonde waves to the woods behind them, crowded and somehow empty. With words spoken and nothing left to be handled, he assumed his path along the stream deep enough to reach past his ankle but still shallow so that he could see the rocks and branches poking through. Apollo was well along in his race across the sky, but the Prince offered no prayer and anticipated no blessing from a god who had forsaken him and his people years before.

In his absence, her gaze monitored his leave, seeing how his massive shape blended uncharacteristically well with the surrounding woods. Throughout the morning a tension had grown in her gut steady as the sun's ascent, and each passing minute was another knot added to the bundle until she found stillness a burden in itself. The anxiety made her restless, and watching his back shrink with distance only compounded her nerves. She felt suddenly dizzy and disoriented, and still she couldn't turn away from his retreating figure. There was an inexplicable desire to follow after him, and it had been long years since she had faced such intense intuition. The woods were dangerous. She had warned him, but how could he know…

Her lips parted to call out to him, but it was stifled swiftly by a rough hand smothering her scream and pinning her head into the unyielding mass of a man's shoulder. She was not so immediately aware of the pressure of a cold blade against her throat, but her hand circled his wrist instinctively, pushing against his strength though she could scarcely restrain him only pause his attack. Her eyes were still latched onto Haemon's back, and the sickening chill of his departure and her end were too tangled so that she couldn't dare release him from her sights like that might condemn her.

"Scream, and I'll gut you," the voice whispered against her temple so harsh and raspy she winced at its resonance like scratches to her cheek. His hand relaxed from her mouth tentatively one strong finger at a time, but her lips were still frozen in the prepared call though nothing but strained, shallow breaths passed through them. Fear made her obedient, and this seemed to content her captor who found a more pleasing embrace for his hand, burying it into her waist and faintly massaging the soft line. She shuddered compulsively, but his hands held her still pinning her against the stiffness of his body. Her eyelashes flickered against her will, so brief, but Haemon was already passing away. When they focused again, she had lost him. Her heart sunk in her chest deep and painful, and her eyes followed suit, coming in line with his fingers curled around the blade at her throat. Without warning, her breath ceased, allowing every ounce of her attention and focus to settle on the ring circling his forefinger golden and taunting her with its mark.

"You traitor," she whispered, unable to claim where that voice came from, but against her shaking body and wracking nerves, it was strong, low, threatening. Hearing it in her ears fooled her into thinking she could embrace those characteristics, but her knees were weak and her body so cold with fear. Still, the voice persevered, "I know who you are."

He chuckled amused for the moment by her fleeting courage and drew his nose along her hairline to her cheek where his lips met her smooth skin, dragging them heavy and messily toward her mouth. "Do you now?"

She jerked as a tender kiss was planted on the corner of her lips, but she was pinned to him and powerless. Only her voice could defy him, and its strength tore down the shackles holding her one by one by one… Her entire body was trembling, but the chill was thawing let her feel the resounding pulse of her heart in her chest and fire in her lungs. "You killed my family."

"Not me, Princess," he said sounding disappointed by her mistake and buried his lips into her hairline, "but I will finish what was begun…"

Her eyes found the line of trees around them and darted frantically from corner to corner for any sign of him, but the silence and the stillness killed her hopes. She was alone now like she had been that night, and as in her darkest nightmares, they had found her. She expected the floor to collapse from beneath them and allow her to fall into the abyss that had swallowed her life, but a sudden rush flooded her unraveling that knot in her gut until every nerve was colliding within her and making her breath quicken, her heart sprint, her eyes pulse. A warm tear rolled down her cheek to be followed by its twin on the other, but sorrow didn't own them.

He kneaded his face against her moist cheek surprisingly compassionate for a hand of Death. It fueled the burning in her blood. "There is time for pleasure before pain." His lips burned her ear forced roughly upon it, and she could feel his smile on her skin as he continued, "They spoke of how sweet your mother and sister were. I wonder if you are the same-"

All at once she screamed and thrust her elbow deep into his gut. He doubled over her causing them both to bend, and only her hand on his wrist kept him from balancing his weight with the blade at her throat. Not a moment later, she sunk her teeth into those flimsy tendons making him howl out, and she jerked against him, pushing with all the power of her legs and back to throw them both over. Against his strength the ground was loose and uneasy beneath them. He slipped, and they both tumbled over with her landing upon his chest. The blade had fallen away into the mud, and she rolled off her captor unable to catch her footing with her dress tangled around her but crawling for the weapon to arm herself against another attack. Her elbows buried in the soil, dragging her through the mud and away from him, and her fingers narrowly circled the hilt slippery with the soil covering them. She rolled onto her back in time to the see the man charging her, and she buried the blade into his thigh hearing him yell out but too terrified to linger. Her legs were caught in the trap of her dress, and she crawled still kicking against the tangled fabric and attempting to gain some distance so that she might free herself.

A familiar whistle sang through the air followed by the soft impact and groan of an injured beast. Her hair was in her face, her eyes still filled with tears, and she couldn't focus nor clear her sights to see if such a beautiful sound were a savior. Her hopes were choked with the sudden constriction around her throat, and dirt sunk under her nails as they ripped into the soil to brace herself. He caught on to her cloak and pulled roughly, making the collar embed in her thin skin and forcing her back up into a painful arch. She coughed a sore breath, wincing, face turning red, and her fingers tore desperately at the collar with every second of growing tension between them: he forced her higher and higher, the material digging in deeper and deeper. She caught the edge of the lacing and freed herself with one swift yank, and she tumbled onto the ground even more breathless and disoriented, curling to give her chest the space for air.

The fight screamed in her ears, and she dug her elbows into the ground completely consumed with her escape knowing she could not battle and conscious enough only to run. She shrieked at the flash of pain hot as flames to her scalp when his fingers knotted in her hair and pulled harshly. Her hands clawed at his wrist only to grasp onto it a moment later and keep him from ripping out her hair as he drug her through the mud. Her legs kicked, her body twisted, but his hold was too strong and too furious to break. Then ice consumed her so shocking and unbearable that she could not move. He flipped her onto her back, and water rushed through her hair, across her face, blinding her eyes. The ice-cold liquid numbed her, and before her mind could realize what was happening, his hands took her slender neck between them and forced her head against the rocky bed of the stream. Deep enough the water crashed over her features and flooded her mouth when she opened her lips to suck in a breath of air, and she swallowed a gulp of water feeling it swarm her stomach and lungs. Her hands changed their siege from his wrists to find his face, but he was angled back too far for her to reach. Still, she swiped at the air, fingers bent like claws, fighting to injure him and release herself, but her attack was futile. She writhed, throwing more of the water across her chest and body, but only her shoulders and hips could move. Her neck was immobile and constricted beneath his impenetrable grip. Already her face burned against the cool chill of water, her throat was closing beneath his weight, her lungs ached deep in her chest for a gasp of air. More water flooded her, and she was suffocating and drowning at once with no way to free herself. Her eyes flung open wishing to see the face that would doom her, but the water rushed through her lashes, tangling them, making it impossible for her to decipher the blurry lines of the trees and the sky and the man killing her. Sensing the futility, her shoulders stilled, relaxing almost into the bed of the stream, as she stared into the rush of colors and roar of the stream. Her legs kicked their final dispute; her features unwound; her body accepted its fate without her consent. Her mind was throbbing and weakening. The black was circling her gaze, and she listened to the last howl of the stream in her ears as she waited for her consciousness to die and her self soon after.

Red bloomed across her eyes so thick and dark it was a cloud upon the water, and she could taste its bitter color like metal on her tongue. The weight was released from her throat, and those hands were replaced by one powerful grip on the front of her dress which tore her from the water and stumbling to her feet. Her weak legs collapsed making her fall face first into the strength of his chest, battling between coughing up water and sucking in air, and with every burning, aching, sharp gasp, the fight breathed inside her. Her hands pushed against him nearly sending her fatigued body over her heels and tumbling into the water again but for the strength of the grip holding to her and steadying her even as she swayed. Her heart thundered in her chest picking up its pace with the air to enable it, and as the water drained from hers ears, she could hear the bark of a command again and again and again. Her eyes blinked away the shroud blinding them, and steadily her spinning world settled letting his features come into focus: blurry chestnut eyes hardening as she gazed at them and realized her Alban Prince bent inches from her face. His thick beard molded around his mouth as it opened and yelled at her again, the sound echoing in her deaf ears.

"Run!"

The present broke around her, and she suddenly remembered the sound of the stream at her feet, the icy chill of her wet dress and hair, and the snapping of twigs as more vagrants were born out of the forest.

Haemon turned to face them, five men in all, looking disheveled and dirty like thieves come to rob them. He notched an arrow and let it fly into one man's chest so that he collapsed onto his knees, blood falling to his chin, and the Prince found another in his sights. He hesitated, staring down this thief charging at him, and his thoughts flickered to the number of arrows resting his quiver –three. He was not as skilled as his brother Nereus and had wasted too many on the men who had attacked Aurora. His rage had blinded him seeing how they tormented her when his back was turned, but now he was calculated, able to reserve his shots in case more enemies emerged, and slid his bow onto his back taking an arrow in one hand and his knife in the other. He met the first attack, narrowly evading the stab for his waist as his heavy feet slid against the soil wet and muddy from treading into the stream to retrieve Aurora, but this close he had no need for agility only speed. He struck in a flash driving the arrow through the man's neck until the bronze tip reappeared, and he yanked to pull it out once more. His hand was too wet with mud and blood, and it slid along the fletching leaving his weapon lost to the corpse that buckled onto the ground twitching and spewing blood from his lips. Haemon spun to face his next enemies, a pair of vagrants charging together, and he ducked to his right, falling beneath the raised blade of one man and leaving the other to double back for him.

He buried his knife into the man's gut, angling it beneath his ribs, and he thrust up with his full strength until he heard that wheezing breath of a lung flooding and saw the dim flicker in the man's eyes. He retracted his knife as roughly but was distracted by the flash of pain as a blade sliced open his forearm, making his teeth grit with a furious growl and his hand open without his consent. The knife fell from his grip, and he had no time to retrieve it as he faced his attacker and caught the man's wrist, holding the blade between them shaking with the muscles straining to overpower the other. The man added his other hand to his wrist, increasing his strength, and Haemon as swiftly followed suit until both were caught and immovable. Above the dirty weapon, their regards locked each motivated by life and death, but who would Hades claim? Not the Prince. He threw his head forward past the siege of their combat colliding into the thief who, unprepared, groaned and stumbled backward. Before Haemon could lunge and steal his blade, two arms circled beneath his shoulders and yanked back his arms until only his forearms could rotate to fight. Snarling under his breath, he thrashed trying to throw off the man holding him, while his comrade regained his senses briefly rattled from Haemon's ignoble tactic and raised his blade overhead once more. There was no hand to impede him, and he aimed without hesitation for the Prince's heart. Haemon stretched to reach the feathered tip of an arrow, fighting against the crude strength holding him, and in that breath of a moment, his eyes focused on the knife watching it fall and knowing its mark would be true.

Yet, it faltered as the man groaned and jerked back, bending unnaturally beneath the dagger embedded in his back. It stabbed again and again until the man fell to his knees, and Aurora was revealed behind him, dagger still raised overhead, her eyes wide and wild with fright and the scent of blood. She looked at Haemon at once soaking and pale and shivering and armed, a frail picture of desperation and terror, his unpredicted rescuer. The Prince threw his weight back crushing the thief between the trunk of a tree and his unforgiving mass. Disoriented, the man could not fight when Haemon reached behind him and grabbed the thief by the tunic, ripping him from his back and hurling him onto the ground. In an instant, Haemon was on him steadying him with a tough grip on his tunic and sending his head swaying under the impact of his fist. The man groaned with each repercussion, his neck cracking under the force, the skin sinking and tearing and curling under Haemon's knuckles, and the blood appeared growing angrier and redder at every hit. Within minutes, the man had gone silent. Only the unforgettable sound of bone tearing flesh remained, and her stomach capsized to watch this savage death, unraveling slowly to her terror-stricken eyes when everything had seemed too fast. An eternity passed before Haemon was satisfied and sat back on his heels, still holding to the man's tunic and watching his limp head rock and fall: one side of his face a bloody pulp while the other stared at Aurora.

Those dark eyes twisted on her, and she recoiled merely at his attention, paralyzed by the brutality and the sheer power he commanded. To kill a man with his bare fist. She was revolted and horrified, but she had no opportunity to process her thoughts for horses' hooves sounded nearby. Her gaze darted toward the noise searching the forest frantically for the riders, hopeful that they were friends but fearful they were foes, when all at once, his hand circled her arm and nearly tore it from its socket with the force he took off running and pulled her in tow. Her legs stumbled clumsily over the ends of her wet dress, numb and freezing, but she ran with him less obedient than frantic. Her horse had strayed being too docile for the sight of blood shed, and it swayed unsteadily at their approach, tossing its head to keep Haemon from gripping the reigns; but he mounted the steed and reached to pull Aurora behind him keeping them both balanced with the strength of his legs and driving his heels into the steed's barrel ribs to command it. His strong fingers tangled in the horse's mane, and he pulled trying to control the agitated steed and too aggravated and rushed to catch the reigns. The horse neighed shrilly, shaking its massive head, beating its hooves into the wet soil, and Haemon gritted his teeth and kicked with his heels, knowing the enemies drawing nearer and needing them to run. The horse bore back on its hind legs enough to make Aurora throw her arms around Haemon's waist and press her body into the strength of his, and as soon as its hooves hit the dirt, they were galloping. She felt the cold wind rush across her arms where they held fast to Haemon and heard the shattering of water beneath the horse's hooves, and both were too sweet to last. Their victory was interrupted by the horse's shriek, and the steed plunged its hooves into the ground, stopping their advance and twisting violently against the arrow piercing its neck. Another ornamented its tan coat inches from Haemon's thigh, and the horse threw them, Aurora first toppling onto the ground and Haemon not a moment later.

Her ears rung from the blood hurtling into her skull, and it throbbed with the weight and the pressure building inside. She groaned and rocked from shoulder to shoulder, at once numb and aching with every bone in her body. Like in the stream, she was torn to her feet yet void of the strength to stand, and she knew the command before she heard it—

"Run!"

Haemon notched an arrow to cover their retreat, the head snapping from point to point in search of their enemy and found one of the thieves on his knees, with the bow lying against his lap. His eyes were void with the loss of blood, and they met Haemon's regard resigned and aware of their fate. He released the sinew, and the arrow flew true into his shoulder, causing the man to recoil and fall onto his side. Seeing his kill completed, the Prince turned and sprinted after his betrothed who had barely made it into the shelter of the forest once more. She staggered more than she ran, stumbling on her dress and the roots of the trees, and when he caught her, he took her elbow once more to drag her along with them. The last marksman might have doomed them by leaving them on foot, and Haemon ran for higher ground, ever aware that more enemies might stumble upon their trail and come for them. They needed to shroud themselves in the thick cover of trees, and his sole concentration grounded him giving weight and power to each footfall. The forest raced around them, an endless maze of trees and shadows and pools of light. Terror blinded her to any sense of direction, and when they stopped at last in a small clearing of trees where rocks broke through the terrain and short, rough shelf extended out of the rising mountains around them, Aurora was lost.

Chest heaving, throat burning, eyes watering, heart thundering, Haemon turned to look past her at the path they had taken and watch for signs of another ambush. The forest was quiet and still, but Haemon felt torn by suspicion and commanded shortly, "Quiet" so that he might listen for sounds of an approach.

Her thoughts were consumed with the burden of what had just passed, and her consciousness fled from her, leaving her marooned within the ocean of her mind and incapable of controlling the wheezing breaths slipping through her lips. Her body felt broken and bent over, carving out the space around her ribs and letting her slender shoulders pitch like a boat on tumultuous waves. Her head hung with them letting her stare down the front of her body without seeing the deep plunge of her dress down to her belly where the fabric dark and sticky as blood had torn with the force Haemon had plucked her from the stream. Mercifully the water made the material mold to her skin, folding around the curve of her breasts and holding it from unraveling around her –not that she would have realized if she were naked before him.

His rough grip took her arm making her remember him, and her head snapped so sharply to face him, Haemon wondered if she didn't mistake him for her enemy. She didn't attack though he was aware of the dagger stuck in her grip which had nearly pierced him during their brief ride, yet she appeared completely oblivious to it, holding it until her boney knuckles poked through her pale skin and driven solely by the need for survival. Her mismatched eyes centered upon his own gaze, and he sustained it even as he took her hand and unwound one finger at a time from the hilt. Neither her stance nor her face flickered with recognition, not until he claimed the dagger himself and released her hand did she notice its emptiness, tearing her attention away from him to stare at her palm still cupped in the air between them. Her body shuddered like the cold hand of fear crawling across her wet skin, and she took a tentative step away from him, then piercing him with her wavering sights, electric in fear like a lamb before a wolf. He frowned unconsciously to see her terror centered on him much like the pale horror strewn across her face when he had killed the thief with his fists, but he protected her –offered his life in exchange for her own. How could she fear him?

"What happened?" he asked, masking his frustration with neutrality, but still drunk on blood and his mind pacing with rage.

The sanguine gown swelled and collapsed around her pale body, and he monitored her erratic breath, short and uneven and only constant in that respect. She retreated another step, and his head cocked forward causing her to freeze beneath his gaze obedient as if he had threatened her with one, faint move. Her throat had closed though her lips were parted, and her mind incapacitated her from answering. This secret had consumed, twisted, and ruined her life, and seeing her darkest fears reach fruition in the light of day, baptized in the blood of her enemies, and brought to life before her, she was too terrified to admit it. Silence had saved her all these years –her silence about her father's notes, her silence about her own memories, her silence about her suspicions… They would have killed her long ago if they had known how often she fostered her investigation and sought out her family's murderers. Staring into his hardened chestnut eyes, dark as stone from the fight, she knew he would force her, and she knew she would concede to him; but she couldn't speak.

The frown mangled his features, contorting the handsome lines into something angry and restless. Her apprehension toward him and her abruptly mute tongue reawoke suspicions much like the hairs standing on edge along the back of his neck. His fingers relaxed and flexed around the hilt, spinning the leather to a fresh grip, and her attention flickered to his weapon as though the small movement were a warning. Spelling out each word, he commanded, "Tell me what happened."

Her lips trembled with the shuddering breath spinning out of them, the chill of it all permeating to touch her soul, and her body shook, little spasms of muscles all through her that made her feel as though she were crumbling to pieces. She swallowed, and her brow opened in a silent appeal that incriminated her all the more. He advanced on her, making her stumble back into a tree where she winced at his sudden proximity hunching his massive body over her, letting his face loom near her own where she could feel the heated brush of his breath on her skin. Her face stretched away from him, eyes clenched closed, and cheek buried against the bristly bark.

"What are you hiding?" he growled sand stared so intensely she could feel his eyes bore into her temple, and no sound answered him, only a tear sliding out of the prison of her lashes to line her cheek. Rather than pity, fury swarmed him so sudden it was flames lashing up his chest, and he took her jaw in his hand wrenching it to make her face him. She writhed faintly, trembling, crying, and he pinned her to the trunk with his hold, sliding back to crush her throat. The memory was too fresh, and her fingers seized him at once, folding beneath the force of his grip and pulling futilely.

"Please," she croaked at last, wincing at the one word as her tender throat ached and burned.

"What have you done!" he burst, seething at her innocent act and tired of her games. "You arranged this! Was this your plan –to ambush me!"

"No! Please!" She pulled at his grip again, growing more severe with his anger to fuel it, and the bark tore at the back of her dress and skin as she struggled to free herself.

"You thought you could kill me! Make it look like thieves!" His weight drove forward trapping her completely with his hand and his body.

"Please!" she begged, increasingly frantic and sobbing so that even her plea was barely comprehensible.

"Tell me!"

"Haemon, stop…" His fingers were compression to a fresh bruise, and her throat burned at his kindling.

"Tell me!" he roared.

Finally her tangled lashes parted letting her eyes supplicate him, shivering like her body against him and so sincerely terrified, it halted him in his tracks. She tugged at his hand, fighting to make room to swallow and speak, but as soon as her throat cleared, a new lump formed knowing what she would have to say and the truth in years of lies. Her eyes throbbed with hot tears then plunging down her face, and her nostrils fretted for the air to rasp, "They came for me."

Immediately those dark eyes scoured her for the tail of a lie, that flicker of guilt, but sorrow and fear permeated every hair upon her body as if her own trembling breath was terrified and swallowed into her lungs once more. "Why?"

Her mouth flattened but couldn't keep the steady line, and her eyes clenched closed, forcing out more tears to clear them. "You know."

Frustrated, he gripped her neck again, reminding her of the threat, and for a moment she saw the thief's mangled face staring at her. It was a promise of Haemon's strength. She pulled frantically at his hand begging him with her body when her appeals had failed to release her, but his price was the truth. The name dangled on her tongue, and yet her mouth was sealed by that twitching line, poised at any moment to break and release the deluge building behind it. His tone was deadly even as he threatened, "Aurora…"

She wanted to shake her head, refuse the obligation, but his hand held her captive and immobile. "Savas," she whispered, and her whole body sunk with superstitious quakes.

"Your uncle?" he clarified, his frown magnifying if it were possible.

"He's not-" she paused and tugged at his grip again, and reluctantly his fingers relaxed, his palm still resting against her throat in case she didn't cooperate as he desired. She held to his hand, fearful he would turn on her, and her throat smoldered all the more now that the pressure was released. It was tender muscles and blades to her throat when she spoke, "He was Gallad's bastard son, bore from one of his mistresses… Gallad provided for him but never claimed him."

He had known this since arriving in Latium: he had known she was the rightful heir, but hearing her confess it jolted him anew. Sensing the story before her lips even unfolded it, he prompted, "Why would he wish to kill you?"

Her head stretched back against the bark, her eyes squeezing shut, but her features shook like her stripped voice as she admitted, "The same reason he killed my family."

Impatient, he snapped, "Why?"

His fingers twitched, and she held his hand open still feeling his palm trap the heat between her slender throat and his skin. "It was a dangerous time. The King's reign was waning. Age had poisoned his heart and mind. There were whispers of an attack brewing in the north. All was fear…" She drew a shaking breath, meaning to still herself, but it was as uneven as everything else. "Gallad sent some of his private guards to protect my family. My father would ascend after him. He needed to be safe." Her head rocked with pain as if the memory were still fresh to her heart, and she murmured, "We were betrayed…"

"How? How can you be sure?"

"My father kept notes of his conversations, his affairs, his everything… The night they came for us, my brother gave me the scrolls and sent me into the woods." Teeth gritting, she sobbed suddenly, her whole body heaving, and the endless stream of tears fled down her face. "He knew –he knew who had betrayed him, but I couldn't understand. For years, I read his notes, begging, praying, screaming for something to make sense, and then I knew-"

"You knew what?" he interrupted, glancing briefly to his left at the path and sensing the threat building with every word she spoke. He had not been prepared for this, and it was not often the Prince found himself stranded in a foreign land with a maniacal King itching for his head.

"The guards. They were traitors –or-or mercenaries in disguise… Savas bought them somehow, made them turn on my family. With my father dead and all his heirs murdered, there would be none to stop Savas. Gallad went mad with sorrow –his wife bore no other heir than my father- and Savas made Gallad declare him the new king." Now that the truth had a gust of breath, it tumbled from her so swiftly he struggled to keep pace and process her accusations as she made them. "No one suspected him. Our house had been burned. They found remains of the guards… Savas murdered his own men and left them to burn so that none would know and none could identify them. And he blamed it on our enemies. We were so afraid of our borders, we were blind to the wolf in our throne!"

Their regards caught in the sliver of space between them, near enough there were no walls, no lies, no boundaries to separate them, and they jointly reveled in the reality. This innocent day had been undercut by a lost treachery, and they could never reverse it and return to their blissful ignorance. He didn't know whether to choke the life from her for keeping something so dangerous trapped away or to protect her. His body steeled against her, neither attacking or retreating, and he searched for a reason to dismiss her. "Why not kill you when you stepped out of the forest? Why wait until now?"

She searched the air above his head, providing a ledge for the tears to build on her lower lashes, and she shrugged listless and empty. She had little answers to her own worries less to the questions he asked. "I was a child," she supposed. "I couldn't even speak for a year afterward… And when I did, no one listened to me. I was Lycaon's mad orphan, and Savas kept me that way –neglecting me, ignoring me, refusing to acknowledge my birthright… When your diplomat arrived offering a trade negotiation, he must have seen the opportunity to be rid of me –to send me away where none would care about my ravings and where he'd never have to worry about me revealing his true nature."

"Yes," Haemon muttered at once aggravated and insulted to see there was a conspiracy behind their shame of an engagement, "I would have taken you, and he could have kept his throne and his secrets… But he risked it all today. That is senseless, Aurora. Those men were no more than dirty thieves."

Her eyes twisted on him, piercing and accusatory. Yet another disbeliever staring at her like she were truly a crazed woman spewing incomprehensible thoughts, but she was not mad! For a moment her sorrow ebbed, bowing to the rush of anger that swept through her driven by years of people trying to drive her mad, of undercutting her logic, and she snapped with her palms pummeling unexpectedly into his shoulders. He barely moved, but she saw his attention sharpen on her and burst, "Who arranged the hunt! Who sent us alone into the woods! Whose guards followed us and disappeared!" Fuming, her pale cheeks flushed, and she nearly wished to hit him again.

"Listen to yourself!" he bellowed in return, and his weight funneled into her to pin her against the tree like him forcing his will upon her.

"I'm not crazy!"

"You're paranoid!"

"I know what I saw! I know what I heard!" she groaned and pushed against him to throw him off. "He told me!" she shrieked, and it seemed to pause the struggle between them. "He told me he would finish what was began. He wore the ring of the King's private guards! It is Savas!"

Their chests mirrored haggard breaths, beating in tandem and unstoppable, but their features were locked on one another's. They scoured for breath. Their eyes burned. Suddenly Haemon abandoned her and paced toward the path, then growling, turning, and repeating the same agitated steps again and again.

Without the wall of him to impede her, she peeled herself away from the bark, immune to the small tears as the tree caught onto her dress, and watched his aggravation build. Her head ached, and she begged, "Why won't you believe me?"

"Because!" he snarled and spun to face. "Because if he is behind this all, what are we to do? We have no weapons, no money, no horse. I can't fight off an entire army! What –are we to walk to Alba Longa? We're as good as dead!"

His harsh words silenced her, and he resumed his pacing while wracking his mind for the possibilities. Against his more honorable inclinations, he entertained the idea for a moment: thinking he could return to the palace without her and with his stag in tow as though nothing were amiss. He could play the part and launch a search for her in the woods, and they might even find her alive. "Then what would you do?" he asked under his breath and imagined the dagger in his hand skewering that false king.

"We can't return to the palace," she answered, confused by his muttering, and she wrapped her arms about her as she recalled the pervasive chill. Another home was torn from her, and she bowed her head as she felt the rush of fresh emotion. "He'll poison us both. Your brother-"

Haemon's head snapped sharply toward her, but she only realized by the silence. He hadn't yet considered Ascanius' fate. It sent him tearing into a new path, and he rubbed roughly at his face, noting to himself, "We've faced worse. Had all the armies of Greece begging for our heads…"

It seemed their predicament had turned her logical betrothed into a mad man, and she kept her tongue, letting him work through whatever torrent of thoughts plagued him, and began warming her arms with her hands. Still her dress was soaking and stuck to her much like her tawny blonde locks. Both felt like ice to her skin, and the chills beaded across her, so sensitive she shivered and felt her teeth chatter. She lifted her hands, hoping to warm them with her breath, when she saw the red smeared across her porcelain skin. For a moment, she stared at the alien substance knowing what it was and wishing she didn't. In time, she couldn't focus on them for the shaking they assumed or perhaps it was the hot tears filling her eyes and spilling over her cheeks. Her palms rubbed at the stain, rough and clumsy, missing and continuing until her skin and the stain were indistinguishable. _A life, a life, a life…_ echoed through her head. Even traitors had families.

His hand covered her own and hid away the red blooming across her skin. She glanced at him to see his features settled calmly, and for the first time, she felt mad when faced with his stoic front.

"Take off your dress."

She couldn't contain the disgusted frown she granted him and promptly wrapped her arms tightly around herself to hide the deep gash in her dress.

He removed his cloak from his shoulders and offered it to her. "You'll freeze before night comes."

Reluctantly, she accepted his cloak but only to draw it to her chest and fold her arms around it. It was still warm from him, and she welcomed the soothing touching to her breast. Haemon retreated toward the path, and her brow knotted like her throat complicated from the tears and pain. She struggled to unwind it and call out, "Where are you going?"

Glancing over one broad shoulder, he paused. "To see if we've been followed."

"We shouldn't separate," she pressed, too afraid of being alone to care if she seemed crazed or desperate.

"The men will come from the south if any follow us today. You'll be safe here."

"What if you don't come back?"

His eyes were frank and sealed her lips, and he turned then to disappear behind the cover of the woods. She watched him as she had seemingly seconds before when he left for the hunt, and she had the same sensation of dread filling her belly like lead. She stood in the exact position feeling her muscles ache with the strength they compressed around her, drawing her knees together, holding her arms tight around her, keeping in the warmth, but every moment with the wet fabric around her was another moment she lost the heat. Haemon was right, and she needed to warm herself so that she could think the clearly. The cold clouded her thoughts and kept her too grounded in her shivering body. She dropped the cloak to the ground and removed the pins at her shoulder. The fabric peeled away from her pale skin, at once giving her relief and unleashing a renewed sense of chill when there was nothing to guard her against the air. She hurried as swiftly as her trembling hands could manage and stepped out of the ends. Naked, she checked suspiciously about her, but the woods were silent and indivisible as an army lined up for battle. Against whom, she couldn't guess. They loomed about her a constant threat and yet she felt some solace in their ranks. She drew his cloak about her shoulders, happy that he was so large the cloak swallowed her, and she could gather the extra fabric about her, wrapping herself into a cocoon. It was scratchy and heavy, but she didn't mind the itches bursting across her skin. It was a reminder that the numb was thawing and letting her blood warm once more.

Her menial task accomplished, she had nothing more to distract her. She gathered her dress and approached the stone shelf emerging from the terrain, and she laid her dress out across its floor where she thought it might dry faster but couldn't be sure. Then she sat beside it, contented to know the shelf shielded her from behind, and she could stare out in the three directions for signs of men approaching. She hadn't been alone in the woods since her childhood, but the loneliness was familiar, less an old friend than a known foe. They faced each other without smiles but comfortable with each other. She couldn't dismiss it, but she tried to fight it. She tried not to look at her hand to see if the blood still lingered. She tried not to close her eyes. Instead, she thought of Haemon and envisioned him stepping through the trees to return to her. He would be her strength, soothe her ill mind, and give them a plan. By the gods, she needed him so severely it hurt her to know she was alone still and he was possibly dead in the woods. Her head craned back letting her gaze up through the canopy of dark trees to the patches of blue sky. The color was darkening. Afternoon was approaching, but where had time fled? Was it too dangerous for even time to linger for them? What would they do when night approached?

_Please let us go_, she prayed suddenly. _Let us go free._

There was a snap to her left, and she startled at the sharp sound. Haemon emerged from the woods with branches in his arms, and she hurriedly wiped away the tears from her cheeks, trying to look as though she had steadied herself in his absence rather than crumbling to pieces. He approached and set the branches on the stone shelf and exhaled slowly. She could still sense the disrupted around him like little fissures in his façade to reveal his nervous and tense energy.

"The bodies are gone," he said slowly and looked to her if only for confirmation of how impossible that seemed.

"What?" she muttered with nothing else to say.

His brow flexed, and his lips angled pensively. "All of them… There were tracks leading toward the road, but I didn't follow."

"Tracks…" she repeated and saw the most gruesome scene flicker before her eyes –those mangled and bloodless bodies lifting onto their feet and leaving.

"Someone cleaned up," Haemon clarified, "I assume. I hid our tracks and searched around the woods, but I didn't see anyone. I don't think they're looking for us."

"I don't understand…"

"Savas disguised his men as thieves. He must be continuing with his plan."

"Wouldn't they come looking for us?"

"Not if he said we were dead."

"But they wouldn't have our bodies."

He shook his head subtly. "I don't know. I don't know what his plan is, but I don't think they're coming for us today."

"Maybe he thinks the forest will finish us…"

"That would be fortunate." He stepped up onto the shelf and began arranging the branches into a pile. "Let him underestimate us."

"What will we do?"

"We'll rest here tonight," he said and paused to balance an arm on his knee, and he took in the scene about them. "I don't see any reason to move. Night will be here soon. We should prepare for it."

"And tomorrow…?"

He began arranging the branches once more and seemed to avoid the question. Finally he answered, "If we see tomorrow, I'll have a plan."

* * *

**Author's Note (post-May)**: Hi lovelies! Thanks to those of you who were patient while this chapter was down! xx


	9. Ghosts

Chapter 9  
"Ghosts"

"You should sleep."

The fire crackled noisily before them. Its shivering orange and golden flames threw a thin halo of warmth, and both Haemon and Aurora crowded near it until they smelled of the ashes and the proximity burnt their skin. They were propped against the rocky edge, resting their tired backs against the stony wall, and within hours, their muscles had become too numb to mind the way the rock stuck into their backs and buried into their bones. Night had fallen long ago, so thick in the woods that it seemed a sheet of black had been drawn across them, and they could scarcely make out the lines of trees let alone what lay beyond them. It was eerie sensing the depth and yet blind like gazing into the sea and unable to reach the bottom. What was filled in the interim she couldn't hazard a thought, but she searched it like a restless steward. During the time since they had narrowly escaped Savas' men, they had spoken few words. It seemed appropriate. They had never been forced to entertain each other for extended periods of time. In fact, Aurora had almost become an expert at evading him, and now, seated together, facing a most certain death, they couldn't think of a thing to say, except…

"Savas' men won't find us tonight," Haemon added as if that were what frightened sleep from her.

Aurora shook her head and readjusted her grip on the cloak around her. She had forgotten that she was naked beneath, that her red gown still stretched out beside the fire, reluctant to dry when lying down and in the cold weather. By morning, she hoped she could slip it on once more. She was afraid she would grow too comfortable, and accidently the folds of his cloak might slip if her grip faltered… Her fingers knotted a bit tighter on the fabric, and she glanced at him, only then wondering how he could bear the cold in only his Alban clothes. Seaside attire was not fitting for the mountains and the woods, yet he didn't even shiver.

Feeling her gaze, he turned to meet it, and each stared vacantly and exhausted at the other. "Sleep," he repeated. "You'll need your strength."

"I can't," she answered at last, and in the fire's light, shadows flickered across her features and made her mismatched eyes glitter unnaturally. "There's something in these woods… and it knows me."

The darkness settled into the crevices of his features, then carving out a frown, and he jockeyed mentally between laughing at her superstition and allowing that unsettling feeling to disrupt his gut. "There is nothing, Aurora."

Ignoring him, her head swiveled to face the endless pit of black, and she continued in a distant tone, "You hear them speaking. Sometimes you see the shadows they cast." She inhaled unsteadily, and her profile grew more severe against the night behind her. "We call them the _ukai_, lost spirits the Keres have trapped here. Hades always calls for them, and they never stop searching… When you sleep, you see them."

"Enough," Haemon said shortly and dismissed her ridiculous stories. "If you're so afraid of the night, you can take first watch."

He settled deeper against the rocky wall and regretted it immediately for the fresh burn of stone prodding at his shoulder blades, but he closed his eyes and pretended he didn't notice them, having already committed to this stance and too stubborn to show pain. His arms crossed loosely over his chest, and he eased his head back to balance against the wall. He had learned at a young age to take comfort in the most austere of places. It was years spent travelling across the seas and through distant lands before he had a bed to rest upon. Sleeping in the black wilderness almost felt more natural, and already weariness was falling down his forehead and draping lower across his eyes. Still, his mind would not release, and sobered briefly, he opened one eye on her and warned, "Don't fall asleep –not without waking me first."

She didn't answer but continued her silent, uncanny watch staring out across the black, her eyes darting from point to point as if truly she could watch those lost spirits moving through the woods.

He exhaled irritably but didn't feel motivated at the moment to chastise her about acting like a child. Rather, he listened to the crackling fire, saw it reflect in the web of his closed lids, and felt it roll off his skin. The rest of him had gone numb with cold, his nose particularly and his fingers, but he focused on the part of skin where he felt the fire, tricked himself into imaging it touching all of him. He didn't notice the rocks jutting into his back or his head. He didn't hear the wordless groan of the woods. He focused solely on the fire, pulsing in his mind, and the deeper he fell, the hotter it blazed behind his eyes until it flared so fiercely he lifted his hand to block out the flames.

Though he shielded his eyes, the light was blinding, all-encompassing, burning everything. All he could hear were the clashes of bronze, feel the rasp of sand beneath feet, and smell the dense ashes of destruction. His hand fell, and he squinted to see the battlefield, blindsided by the indecipherable number of soldiers engaged around him and even more so by the familiar street. Time was impossible to tell given the fire's force tearing through the dark blanket of night and stars above them, the heat was palpable, and the battle was in full force. He was unarmed in the center of their sea, yet a soldier rushed past him as though blind to his presence, and as he turned to follow the man's path, he felt the armor weighing down his shoulders and chest. A bronze linked plate molded to his ribs, bronze wrist fenders and shin guards adorned his limbs, and his sandaled feet were covered in sand and blood. He could feel it in his mouth, making his tongue gritty, and he swallowed to clear away the taste. When he turned to face the surge of soldiers, he noticed a figure standing still from the edge of his gaze, both of them statues in the eye of the carnage swirling recklessly around them. He spun uncertainly toward his unannounced ally, and immediately recognized the bronze helmet and blue plume spilling from it like a lost memory springing to life before him. His chest capsized with the weight of the image shuddering against the heat, all crackling edges and crisp angles, and his head was concrete, too heavy to hold up but stuck permanently in the same hardened expression.

The helmet slowly rotated atop those sturdy shoulders and allowed him a glimpse at chestnut eyes which were an exact mirror of his own. He removed the helmet, and Haemon watched his father's features fall into place as if not a day had passed since he stepped outside the gates. He looked young, strong, and invincible as Haemon had once known him to be. His chest ached, feeling hollow within, and it was alien to him realizing something belonged there that he had lost long, long ago. Hector's chestnut curls moved in a slight breeze, and even with his brow knit to keep out the blaze, the pale scar shone white against his bronze skin. _The Thessalian giant… An impossible victory_. Hector offered his helmet between them, and Haemon couldn't understand something so insignificant when the gods had granted them a moment together. They should speak, embrace, fight, anything! But his tongue was swollen with the sand, and his chest too barren to find the will to speak. He took the helmet if only to please Hector, to be sure he'd stay, and he slipped it onto his head until the sounds of war were muffled and he could hear the rumbling thunder of his heart in his ears. Hector removed his shield and extended it next, and Haemon stared at the shield embossed with the symbols of Troy upon it and couldn't understand this exchange, less deny it. He slid his forearm into the leather straps so that it was fitted perfectly to him. Finally, Hector drew his sword from the sheath across his chest, and as it met the light, the engravings in the bronze blazed, momentarily blinding Haemon's eyes. He winced to block out that gleam seeming to grow with every moment and making his eyes and head ache to suppress it. He instantly recognized the blade: Aeneas kept hidden away and would not sell it during their travels –not when they were almost starving –not when they had but one horse left –not when their shoes were falling apart –not ever. Hector provided this blade too, and Haemon assumed it as silently and obediently as the rest. Once he was fully adorned, Hector seemed to admire his eldest son prepared for war and standing tall enough they were eye-to-eye, and Haemon rose proudly beneath his father's watchful eyes.

"I can protect you now," Haemon promised, and Hector smiled in that fatherly way he would sometimes, a small curve which harbored years of wisdom and endless understanding. Above it, his eyes were vacuous pools, infinitely dense and yet empty, and Haemon stared into them searching for something to latch onto yet feeling that this was all sand slipping through his fingers. Not even a palm full remained. He raised his sword to show his resolve, his weapon, all that he could offer, but Hector turned away.

"Father…"

Hector stepped into the melee, unarmed, comfortable, unrushed, and soldiers paused amidst their battle to take notice of the Trojan Prince who joined them.

Realizing Hector's intent, Haemon sprung forward, eyes darting to assess each threat, and he yelled out, "Father!"

Hector continued his easy stride further into the ranks of enemy soldiers, and Haemon buried his sword in the first man who impeded his path, growling out his warning to the others but too preoccupied staring at Hector fading into their lines to realize the depth of his opponents.

"Father!"

He didn't turn, and a sudden rush of panic consumed Haemon, melding with his rage, with his guilt, with his sorrow, and he lashed out at another soldier tearing open his gut and watching his insides spill onto the ground. Yelling, he severed a man's arm, he sliced open another's throat, he cut someone's leg, he split one's helmet. He attacked mercilessly until the dead carcasses and severed body parts and blood piled around him, and for every man he killed, another took his place until a sea of soldiers collapsed upon him. He swung endlessly, sweating, breathing haggardly, exhausted, and so furious. His eyes never ceased their search for Hector, but his father was lost in the swell of soldiers funneling to take him.

"Father!"

He couldn't protect him. His eyes burned with heat, the sand, the pressure building in his head.

"Father!"

He couldn't save him. Howling like an animal, he fought, stabbing, ripping, tearing, cutting, and lunging. Blood covered him from toe to nose, and his weapons had fallen to his feet leaving him only his bare hands to reach for throats and eyes and ears. He was vicious and uncouth and lax of the honor his father had taught him. _Honor._ He couldn't breathe. Each time he opened his mouth, he drank in the blood. It was blinding his eyes. He crawled over the carcasses, slipping on their wet skin and falling over them. He struggled to gain his footing, but the soldiers were buckling around him like a wave crashing over him. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. He fought. He couldn't stop fighting, and he couldn't stop howling.

"Father!"

He shot forward, arms swinging against invisible enemies, and the black was almost more blinding that the fire of his dream had been. He was gasping, shaking, sweating, and he searched his body finding his black robes in place of the Trojan armor and his bronze skin clean of blood. The cold made his lungs burn, made his throat crackle, and the pain was real to him, as much as the blood and the gore of his nightmare. Feeling eyes upon him, he spun to meet her watchful silence. The fire reflected in her eyes, making them shine in a supernatural way, and they pulsed all the more in contrast to her pale face which was relaxed in understanding, sympathy even. Haemon stiffened uneasily, realizing he had called out in his sleep, and he looked away from her to his hands still curled into fists at his sides. He couldn't acknowledge what had passed if only in his head. It felt too real to be a dream, and the pain in his chest was an empty throbbing so severe it seemed he had watched his father die yet again. He stared into the fire as vibrant as the flames licking at his lost city and knew now there would be no sleep for either of them –not in these black woods.

‡‡‡

The red gown settled unevenly across her, receding in places from the gash in the front and crumpled in others, and Aurora worked her palms across the fabric to calm it and mold it to her needs. It did little to affect the dress and more to agitate her nerves, but she found any excuse not to turn and walk out of the line of trees to find Haemon who was destroying the remnants of their camps. He had promised a plan but delivered none thus far, though she imagined his sleepless night had distracted him. In her eyes, he was a wall of a man: impenetrable to attack and shielded from inquiry, but last night she had glimpsed at the demons which tormented him. The woods had that unique ability to magnify the small tremors in one's psyche, making them crumble at the seams, and she had warned him. Still…

_"Father!"_

His voice had been so desperate, so earnest. What was she to make of that? He fought in his sleep, and she wondered faintly if that were natural for him to fight whether conscious or not. He had seemed startled, but perhaps he was only confused to awake in the middle of the forest beside her.

_Why do you call for your father, Prince?_ she wondered and continued adjusting her dress. _Does he not wait for you in Alba Longa? Do you fear someone will steal him from you?_

A rustling in the brush distracted her, and her head snapped to full attention, concentrating her gaze across her left shoulder. The woods were silent with pale morning filtering through the canopy and dancing across the rocky ground. The forest looked peaceful and still, but she had the sense something lurked beyond its edges and knew her intuition to be true since their ambush the day before. Without hesitation, she turned on her heel and hurried into the clearing once more, no longer caring about the gash in her gown, and found Haemon bent over and destroying the evidence of their campfire.

He didn't turn when she approached, and she whispered forcefully, "Haemon!" to draw his attention.

He immediately stood, and judging by the severity of his features, he realized something was amiss.

"There's someone," she continued, keeping a low, forced tone, and she pointed in the direction of the noise. "I heard it."

His dark eyes rushed to follow her hand, and he drew his bow and arrow and stepped forward to shield her with his body and weapon. The rustling renewed, seen only as the intermittent glimpse of a shadow, and Haemon's body stilled with his attack prepared and waiting. The sound rushed closer, swift as the breeze through the trees, and all at once a black dog charged out of the brush.

As swiftly as the beast emerged, Aurora knocked Haemon's arm and yelled out "No!", and his arrow flew into the ground barely missing its prey. The Princess then knelt to welcome the husky dog into her arms, and his tail wagged contentedly while he licked at her face, making her laugh as she massaged her fingers through its heavy coat.

Startled and confused, Haemon watched their reunion like old friends finding each other again, but he was forced to fetch a fresh arrow when another stepped into the clearing. This time he recognized the tall, burly man with pale blonde hair knotted at his nape and worn grey eyes, but he saw less an acquaintance than an adversary. Yet again, his betrothed was not similarly shrewd.

"Atlan!" she gasped the moment her eyes found him, and she rushed forward to embrace him.

The old huntsman folded her against him, engulfing her in the length of his arms, and a faint itch sprung between Haemon's shoulder blades that travelled up to the base of his skull. He frowned a fresh, raw look of disapproval and maintained his stance with the bow stretched and prepared to meet its mark.

At length, Atlan recognized the unyielding glare facing him with effect of his body stiffening and neck straightening. Sensing the shift in his posture, Aurora looked up to understand his distracted attention and traced it over her shoulder to Haemon. She mirrored his frown and placed herself before Atlan, effectively marking out her allegiance.

"He's a friend, Haemon," she condemned as though her body didn't speak enough, and her gaze flattened to mimic her distaste.

"I have no friends," he corrected, "not until I know who my enemies are."

"You're wise to suspect all, Prince," Atlan agreed before more spiteful words could spring from Aurora's tongue, "but I am one of few who is not among your enemies… So long as you protect Aurora."

His eyes narrowed at the implication, concentrating each to pits black and hard as stone. "Why are you here?"

"I explained that to you the last time you interrogated me." He stepped out from behind the Princess, and Haemon's arrow followed his every move seamlessly. "Aurora is a daughter to me. I needed to find her before the King's men did."

"They search for us?"

"Yes, but you knew they would."

"Do they think us alive?"

"That is more difficult to answer," Atlan confessed, and his grey eyes flashed with a wash of rage the Alban Prince didn't anticipate. "When Aurora didn't return to the palace by late afternoon, suspicions were drawn."

"Not until the afternoon?" Aurora blanched in simultaneous insult and horror.

"You do have a reputation for disappearing…" Atlan whispered, and there seemed to be a hint of a smile in the edges of his lips though his eyes remained stern as ever, a clouded storm building in their depths. "Savas sent guards at once to search for you. They claimed there was evidence of a fight, though no bodies were found. Savas decided you must have been ambushed by rogue men and taken for ransom. By this time, night was drawing near, and Savas announced a grand search would commence at daybreak."

"No one found this odd?" Haemon interrupted, his frown now creased with disbelief more than anger.

"Your brother, for one," he answered. "He offered to take his men and search for you while there was still light out… I visited him and convinced him otherwise."

"You did what!" the Prince growled, and the bow groaned as it was drawn even greater.

Atlan caught Aurora before she could step in front of him again, and for once her eyes nearly looked the same shade, so dark with fury and directed solely toward her betrothed.

"I told him to run, Prince," Atlan continued. "I tried to explain that this was an elaborate scheme –that there was no kidnapping-"

"How could you know?" Haemon interrupted once more, but it was evident he would ever be distrustful and hunting for deceit.

"I searched the site where the guards claimed to have found signs of a battle. The tracks read like an account. I could nearly tell every move made, and there was much blood –too much for there to be no bodies. It felt wrong… I have no other way to describe it. I knew something was amiss, and Savas' behavior… I had held suspicions for many years, and I thought finally Savas has made his move."

"You based your belief on a _feeling_?" he asked with an incredulous gleam to his words.

"I'm a hunter. I can learn more from someone's tracks than their words, and I trust my instincts… I didn't know I was right until now."

Arrow still notched, Haemon changed direction, "And my brother? What of him?"

"He didn't believe me initially. He thought I was trying to distract him from finding you. He threatened to disembowel me multiple times if I hindered him, but then, finally, he seemed to realize there was truth to what I was saying." Atlan quirked a brow in both amusement and aggravation. "He realized his older brother would never be bested by common thieves, lest allow himself to be captured by them."

The strength of the words resonated between them, and amazingly, one corner of Haemon's mouth edged into a smile. He nodded as if to applaud Ascanius and his judgment.

"He rode for Latium in the night," the huntsman continued. "When Savas discovered your brother's disappearance, he began making ridiculous claims against you and your family. He said you kidnapped Aurora, so that you would not have to honor your agreement… I think he understood he had been found out and tried to distract those around him by charging your family with these atrocities. He sent guards after your brother."

"They won't catch him," the Prince noted immediately since Ascanius was the strongest rider in all of Alba Longa.

"Let us hope not… As for you, they are searching, and Savas will not give you the chance to speak your piece if he finds you." It was then that Atlan removed the various packs piled onto his hefty shoulders and deposited them onto the ground in offering. "Your only option is to run like your brother."

At last, Haemon released his hold on the bow and slid the arrow into his quiver. "We won't make it to the border, let alone Latium before Savas' men catch us."

"No, you won't," Atlan agreed, "not if you head that direction."

"What are you suggesting?"

The huntsman grimaced briefly as he straightened and stood tall once more. "Are the Samnites not allies of yours?"

"Yes…" the Prince admitted, and his gaze wandered like his thoughts rushing to reach an end brought by this reminder.

"You think we should ride for Samnium," Aurora spoke up more tentatively than the men and looked to Atlan for confirmation.

"Samnium and Apulia have been at war on and off for decades. There's an irreparable vendetta between the two kings. I believe the Samnite king will help you if you go to him."

"To reach Samnium, we would have to cross the mountains," Aurora understood, waiting to see whether Atlan had considered this as well, and she frowned when his features showed no change in thought. "How is that less dangerous?"

"Because Savas won't expect it," he answered shortly. "You know the High Pass. If you take it, you will cut across the mountains and go directly to the capital of Samnium. There is an outpost, but it is poorly guarded."

Facing an impossible decision where death seemed certain and success futile, the Princess turned from Atlan to consider her Alban Prince. Where her gaze had been clouded with anger, he discovered the mismatched eyes appealing to him now, torn and confused.

He slid the bow onto his back, so simple an act yet it made her even less comfortable for he was fully disarmed. By contrast, they stared at one another as though equals, and he confessed, "I don't know these lands."

"Aurora does," Atlan intervened, but his contribution has no visible effect on the silent conversation passing between the pair, Aurora uncertain and timid where Haemon was resolved and waiting for the final word.

At length, the Princess swallowed, and her features opened with a question, "Do we have a choice?"

"No." He exhaled shortly, compressing his chest and shoulders into a stiff line. "We try for Samnium, or we die."

"I brought supplies –everything I could carry—to help you," Atlan tried again, and this time Haemon stepped forward to look through the various bags the huntsman had brought.

With her betrothed distracted and their decision rather coldly decided, Aurora implored him, "You won't come with us?"

The old Apulian sighed when he met Aurora's alarmed look, almost pained by her fear and his inability to shoulder it, and he tentatively stepped closer to her and lowered his voice. "I have my family to look after, Aurora, and I can be of better service to both of you here. I'll keep watch of Savas' movements and send word to Prince Ascanius so that he knows you're alive and making for Samnium."

"But…" she worried instantly though the silence crept in as she recognized how selfish her disapproval was. Brazenly, she admitted, "I need you."

Atlan glanced at Haemon who was ignoring them and sliding the packs onto his shoulders. Taking Aurora's arm, he squeezed it briefly, but his attention had fallen to the bruises circling her neck. "No, you don't. Look what you've already faced and overcome without me… Let him be your guardian now."

Her lips trembled to match the uncertain quaking of her eyes, and they glistened in the fresh morning light, staring up at him both vacant and full of fear.

Atlan touched her cheek then and smoothed his fingers along her skin as though comforting a child. "My lost girl," he murmured and forced an encouraging smile, "you're meant to survive. Your destiny lies beyond these lands. I know you're afraid to leave what is familiar, but this is not your home –not anymore… Make your family proud. Live for them."

The first tear fell past the barrier of her lashes, and Atlan swiftly wiped it away. He bent forward and kissed her forehead much like he had when she was young and fearful, and she felt the same sense of relief soothe her heavy mind. Haemon stood at last when there was nothing more to be done, and the huntsman squeezed her arm once more to warn her that the time had come.

"Thank you," she muttered in a broken voice and felt a renewed prick in her chest for how inadequately those words encompassed all that she felt. "Without you... I can never repay you all that you've given me."

"You can," he assured her. "Make it to Samnium alive, and all that I've done will not be in vain."

"We must hurry," Haemon commented, but it was a knife through their tender moment.

Aurora glared sharply at him for there was no better place to direct her frustration.

"I've left my horse at the edge of the trail," Atlan said, "or I would offer it to you now… If you have the chance, you must take one. Steal it. You'll be too easy to catch on your feet." He then untied the money pouch he carried at his waist and handed it to Aurora. "This is all I've carried. Do not waste it. It's barely enough to bribe a man, but it may help you along your journey."

"Thank you," Haemon said earnestly with a stiff nod of recognition like a silent promise among them. "If I make it to Alba Longa, you will be rewarded, huntsman."

Atlan smiled almost sardonically, at once amused and insulted. "The only reward I need is Aurora's safety. Protect her, and consider your debt paid."

"I will."

"Go now," the Apulian said to Aurora who still stood before him, donning a look too similar to the lost expression she had worn when he found her that he could not bear to face her. He grimaced faintly and turned away. "I will cover your tracks. Go."

The ground crunched beneath his heavy feet, but Aurora didn't turn to follow Haemon's retreat into the forest. Her eyes were buried into her adopted father's back, and in that space all her fears, her sadness, her loss flourished. Yet, an unknown string tugged at her chest, pulling her toward the forest line where Haemon had disappeared. So their fates had been tied, and she felt him drawing her away from everything that she knew. She wished to tear that seamless thread which joined them but knew it futile when there would be nothing to catch her. Apulia held nothing for her. She had died in the woods long ago the same night her family had been murdered, and her life was now bound to this man who was as much a stranger as her husband. Hot, sticky tears filled her eyes and burned her cold cheeks. She wanted to reach for Atlan, but her fingers wouldn't brush him. He was lost to her too. The thread tugged harder, sending a sharp flash of pain resounding against her bones. It was impatient. There was no question. Gritting her teeth, she turned from Atlan, feet leaden like she were wading knee-deep through a tumultuous sea, but she treaded forward, one step after another after another. She caught up with him though she hardly noticed how his pace kindly slowed so that he wouldn't lose her. Perhaps he felt the commanding thread joining them.

Briefly he glanced over his shoulder at her, but she couldn't meet his inquiring look, knowing how her cheeks shone with tears she could not stop.

_Look upon your queen, Prince_, she thought bitterly and bit her lip to still its trembling. _Would you still take me if you knew the storm I bring?_

‡‡‡

The town center pulsed with activity like the heartbeat of Alba Longa whose residents rushed to prepare the games, feast, and adornments for their king. The same handsome rogue had won their loyalty and hearts years before, and he now bore an uncanny frown across his features, carved out of discomfort and humility, as he watched them toil to please him. Their attention would be better served mending the wall guarding their city, destroyed months earlier in an attack by Scipio's army, and preparing for winter, but in assembling a celebration, they seemed much more lighthearted and content. It seemed honoring his life was the perfect way to distract them from the death that had plagued their city since its formation. They needed to time plant their roots, peace with their neighboring lands, or at least a more skilled army to protect them, but as he well knew, these things could not be bought, less bartered for. Even after all the offerings he had sacrificed in the gods' names, he knew they could not give him the one thing _he_ most needed most… Myrina. How that fiery spirit and sharp tongue kept the trickster in him honest and made a man out of the most narcissistic demigod. Years the wound torn by her passing had closed, but it was poorly tended and subject to tear at the slightest provocation. The scar was ugly, raised, and angry. There was no harsher mark left in all his years of waging war as that from the loss of her.

Absently, he touched two fingers to his side near his ribs where he knew the slight wisp of an old wound remained, and similarly, he sought out those memories locked deep away like the most favored and expensive of all his treasures.

How many years ago was it that he first saw her face?

Blue eyes paling with age closed, providing a screen upon which to project her youthful features… Those unusual blue-green eyes were wide and round as a babe's, contrasted starkly by the blush rushing to consume her face, and how her full lips subtly trembled as she faced him. She looked upon him as though he were the sun, oblivious to how her naïve, innocent stare dug beneath his skin and pricked at something tender in his rotting heart. For the deceivingly good looks his mother hand granted him, his youth was lost to an endless revelry of drinking, whoring, and charging carelessly into battles. He was a hollow man, bitter and jealous of his cousin who was promised everything when _he_ was the one of divine blood. Yet Hector constantly surpassed him, revered for his bravery, loyalty, and honor where Aeneas was condemned even in his attempts to be a better man. Honor had never been his virtue. In trying to win Myrina's love, he had stolen her from her home and family. In keeping his promise to Hector, he had neglected his vow to his wife. No good deed went unpunished.

"Sometimes I wonder, old friend, how these days would look had I gone in your stead," he spoke and opened his eyes to the silence of his walls, imaging the Trojan Prince seated in his chair and listening to the regretful grumblings of a grizzled king. Aeneas turned toward the empty chair for the Prince was already moving to the door, and he mused, "You took his cousin. Do you think Achilles would have been satisfied taking yours?"

"_Would you have died for me?"_ his phantom asked while pausing in the threshold.

"I think it might have been easier than living in your shadow," Aeneas answered and smiled wryly. "I could have died a hero. Imagine the odes they would have written to my valiant sacrifice."

"_And what of the odes to your… other conquests?"_

The edges of his mouth hiked up higher, hiccupping briefly with a soft chuckle, but soon he broke out into laughter when the sensation grew too colossal to sustain. The sound swarmed the silent room like a sudden attack, and in its resonance, the humor of an unspoken quip grew in his mind. By the time Iliana entered donning a perplexed and reproachful expression, his ribs ached, his lungs burned, and he was wiping away the tears caught in the creases at the edges of his eyes.

"Have you gone mad, old man?" the young Alban princess demanded with two fists planted on her hips.

"Perhaps," Aeneas answered and grinned so broadly the sun seemed encompassed in his features, lighting them up with spry delight. "There's a point where age and madness cross."

"You've convinced the servants!" She motioned toward the door behind her where his attendants were no doubt eavesdropping.

Rolling his eyes, he grunted with masculine derision, and Iliana shook her head.

"It's a pity… We'd so hoped you would have a few more salient years," she taunted, a smile sneaking in between her lips to disrupt her stern look.

"As do all kings. At times I'm tempted to let your brothers fight over the crown while I ease into Hades drunk and content as a babe."

"What a legacy you would leave," she muttered and couldn't contain herself from sauntering toward the table and planting herself in the seat a certain, invisible Trojan Prince had occupied moments before.

"I aim to be nothing if not memorable." Aeneas' grin faltered as he saw more Hector's daughter than his own for a brief moment.

"What were you laughing about?" she asked when the jokes faded and her curiosity remained.

He strolled to the table as well and balanced one palm on the top beside the worn map that had guided them through the years. "I was thinking of the upcoming celebration."

"That amuses you?" One brow cocked dubiously, and Aeneas realized Iliana had inherited her mother's uncanny ability to pry for the truth.

"Yes," he responded, "I think of what my lost friends would say to see me so old."

His warm, casual tone did not transfer, and Iliana assumed the forlorn look that aged her features and made Aeneas' heart recede deeper into his chest. Her chestnut eyes fell to consider her lap where she was picking at her dress and arranging the folds in her lap. "I'm certain they would clap you on the back and wish you many more years…"

"Some were not so noble as you." He took her chin and eased her head back, offering her a hand to retrieve her from the sudden gloominess. "What do you suppose your mother would say?"

A smile warmed Iliana's features as she imagined, "She would march into your chambers and tell you you should laugh more, even if it is alone like a crazed man, and that you should accept the love and devotion of those around you and be grateful for this celebration rather than stewing in here and looking over your maps and plans each day!"

His shoulders fell subtly, and he nodded, a candid pained smile passing across his face. "Fortunately… I have you to nag me instead." He straightened to his full height and plucked one of the pieces of parchment from his table to consider as he recalled his upcoming meeting with his sons and lieutenants. "Is that the only reason you've come to see me?"

"To nag you?" she understood and narrowed her eyes as though insulted. Abandoning the look, she stood and admitted, "No. I came to tell you I'm leaving to visit Eione and Chara. I'll return before supper."

"You and your sister-in-law have grown close as of late," he noted though he was oblivious to how intuitive his statement was.

"I worry she's lonely without Ascanius around," Iliana lied in part.

"Yes. We all wish Haemon and Ascanius would return soon." Perhaps Aeneas was too trusting his youngest for he didn't seem the slightest bit aware of her deception.

"And Haemon said nothing of his plans for the journey back?" she continued, guiding the conversation away from herself.

"No." His eldest son's latest letter had arrived only a day before, and its contents pestered the old king more than gave him peace. _Judging by his letter, it will not be long before he rides through our gates…empty-handed._ "Go and see Eione. Give her my blessing."

"I will." Sweeping toward her father, she reached to place a chaste kiss on his cheek, the grey bristle of his beard scratching her skin in a way that echoed memories long ago and making her feel childlike. "Do not let concerns about Scipio and his men consume you, or they'll send you to the pyre before your time."

"I'll have to marry you off if you continue to worry over me like this," he warned and smiled. "Go."

She grinned guiltily and left the room, finding the few servants who worked for her father gathered uncharacteristically in the corridor at once. Their heads were uniformly bowed to the ground though she still granted each the weight of her gaze oscillating to consider them and silently warn that she knew their purpose. Pleased with the effect she gained, she moved through the home to find a veil for her hair and gather the bowl of stew she had made the day before. No matter how menial the tasks, her skin was buzzing and vibrating as if the anticipation were humming within her. Each passing second doubled its resonance until she fought to still her hands shaking while they fretted arranging the veil over her and around her face. She then took up the bowl and stepped out of the home, glancing about to be sure none were watching her.

Finally the previous night had brought a front of cooler weather, signaling the gradual shift from summer to fall which was too oft delayed in their lands. There were times she wondered what it would be like to live in an area with true seasons, with changing leaves and snow, but as she felt the cool breeze sweeping in from the sea and rustling about her, a sublime sense of peace settled within her. This was her home. Odd that they abandoned one coastal city to settle in another, but perhaps their people would always be drawn to the sea, searching for what was familiar in the foreign. She shook off her brief thoughts though she was incapable of shucking her pensive mood and started across the small town center. The branches of trees were being adorned with dyed fabric and candles, and she smiled at the women dressing the trees with the diligence of handmaidens. Truly it would be a beautiful sight to behold when the day of the celebration came and night fell. She couldn't deny the pride blooming in her chest at how each man offered what he could in honor of her father. She knew he doubted himself, but Aeneas was a good man. He was only haunted by a past of poor decisions, indiscretions, and youthful carelessness, and in truth, Alba Longa was built of lost men with their own secrets and histories –men like Damian.

As usual, the door to the forge was propped open by the mutilated helmet to allow a fresh breeze into the dense space. The air tasted cleaner, absent of the oppressive heat that accented her discomfort around this man, yet her heart reached a crescendo of excitement and regret when she rapped on the door and stepped inside. She was struck firstly by the number of spears, swords, axes, arrows, and shields piled up and crowding the main room, and for a moment, her eyes were lost trying to understand the culmination of his work in such a seemingly short period of time.

The reason for his newfound productivity soon bobbed into her line of sight and almost caused her to lose her handle on the bowl of stew. His blonde curls were mussed and stained with ashes like his clothes and skin, and she could scarcely recognize the bright blue eyes staring at her.

_Eber's boy… What is his name?_

"My Lady," the juvenile said, looking as startled by her appearance as she was by his. "Forgive me… I thought you were Kain come to deliver more wood." Like most young men, he had sprouted up before he had the opportunity to fill out, and his long, lithe limbs accentuated his nerves around her, all sharp angles and rigid lines.

She gathered her wits demurely though was fretting to explain her reasoning for arriving unannounced and without chaperone to a man's home. "I brought a meal for Damian," she said at last and glanced over the boy's shoulder to see if her blacksmith would materialize and pluck her from this awkward situation, "as a sign of my family's gratitude for all that he has done."

"That's… That's very gracious of you, My Lady." His tone wavered subtly, matching his gaze which was pinned to the ground.

His anxiety was catching, and she found herself unnerved simply recognizing how uncomfortable he felt. Yet she was a better handler of her emotions than the young man, and her voice sounded strong, almost imposing as she requested, "Is he here?"

"Yes," he answered promptly and paused, head hanging, stance rocking back and forth over his feet.

A slight crease grew between her brows where her nerves were swift turning to annoyance. "I'd like to deliver this myself."

"Yes," he agreed immediately and obediently, but again he hesitated. Glimpsing at her, he recognized her aggravated look and explained, "But he-he's resting. It's my fault… He asked not to be disturbed."

His report only confounded her more, and she struggled briefly for the proper manner to address him but was interrupted.

"Enough, Pelicles," his gruff tone barked, causing both Iliana and the boy to startle. "You do not refuse a princess."

He stepped forward from his private quarters into the forge, rather inelegantly treading around a pile of spears, and her confusion tripled when she noticed his gait. The normally rugged, sturdy blacksmith now concentrated his weight on his left leg, then stepping swiftly with his right as though to avoid placing too great a strain on that side of his body. Her eyes followed his every movement while she attempted to understand and locate his injury.

"Go home to your father. I've no more use for you today," Damian decided in a clipped tone that was pregnant with aggravation, and even his features were fixed in a stony expression.

"I'm sorry," the boy muttered, and his willowy body nearly buckled under the weight of Damian's stare. "I thought you might need… Are you certain? I can be of service–"

"You've done enough," he interrupted curtly, and his raspy voice made the words more jagged.

Pelicles struggled momentarily with this dismissal and wondered, "When should I return?"

"I'll send word."

His head hung the more heavily, and he directed it toward Iliana as though bowing in respect. "Excuse me, My Lady."

He brushed past her and hurried out the door, nearly stumbling over his growing feet in the process, and Iliana frowned sympathetically. She had never sseen Damian so short and apathetic, though it was not difficult to imagine his motivations when he drew closer to her, one stiff step at a time.

"You're hurt," she commented, frown deepening.

One edge of his mouth pulled back in a grimace of vexation, and he offered his hand to take the bowl of stew from her.

She held fast to it, forcing him to look at her, as she continued, "How badly?"

"I can still finish your father's blade," he countered, and his eyes shaded more darkly under his knit brow.

Her features immediately mirrored his own, looking insulted by the insinuation, but then how long has this game gone unacknowledged and unfulfilled? Time made their attraction spoil to frustration.

"Has anyone tended to it?" she pursued stubbornly.

"No…" he admitted and seized the bowl from her hands as though to end this discussion. He turned from her to place the bowl on the tabletop where they usually sat, and Iliana followed if only not to be ignored.

"Let me see the wound."

"It's of no concern," he snapped. "I will call for the healer"

With his rising frustration grew her own, and her stance set making her appear as unyielding as her tone. "You do not refuse a princess…"

He exhaled shortly through his nose and glanced at her, looking aggravated to have his words fed back to him.

By effect, her guard eased, and she amended, "If you wish me to leave, ask it… Otherwise, let me help you."

His gaze remained as dark, but she sensed a shift beneath the surface. Reluctantly, he reached beneath his right arm and drew his shirt from the material around his waist. As it rose, she saw the appearance of a dressing, and her horror grew while she watched him pull his shirt over his head, wincing, and reveal the size of the bandage nearly encapsulating his whole chest. How could he say _this _was of no concern?

His pigheaded need to hide the injury suddenly infuriated her, and her chestnut eyes snapped up at him ablaze. His attention was directed away so that her look went unnoticed, and she frowned deeply and found the edge of the dressing and began unwrapping it from him. He held his arms away from his ribs, giving the space for her hands and arms to fit, and were she not so angry with him, she might have flushed for the proximity and her undressing him. His jaw was set stiffly, and he fought away a grimace as she gently pulled the material away from the burn stretching down his side and onto his back. There was no incision, but the wound was angry and the skin blistered and bloody.

"How did this happen?" she murmured softly and took his elbow, guiding his arm slightly higher so that she could better see the wound.

"Eber offered his son to apprentice with me," he grumbled. "I've taken on a few as a trial –to see which was best suited and the least irritating… Pelicles was the most eager and learned quickly. Today I allowed him to shadow me and practice the process with a scrap piece of bronze… I was looking at my plans when he stumbled with the hot metal and fell into me."

Each word seemed to relive that foolish mistake, making his eyes flare even as he tone grew increasingly cold, but Iliana was better able to understand his motivations now.

"It was a foolish mistake," she noted as she recalled Pelicles' behavior and realized the poor boy was wrought with guilt. Damian made no move to agree with her, too caught up in his anger, and she decided, "Sit while I fetch some herbs."

Without giving the opportunity to object, she rushed out of the forge and toward her home where they kept a small garden with medicines for this purpose, and she drew her veil across her face, ducking behind the corner before any could notice her. She was swift as she knew precisely what she needed and tore the leaves from two plants and wrapped them in the edges of her veil. Moments later she returned to the forge and pushed aside the helmet so that the door would fall shut behind her and keep out any wandering eyes. Visiting a man unchaperoned was scandalous enough. She didn't need others realizing the same man was half-naked and waiting on her return.

His dark eyes unsettled her gut as they followed her every move, and the brief time away reminded her abruptly of her nerves. Her heart picked up its pace within her chest while she settled the herbs on the table and noticed a small vessel of _tsipouro_, a pale, potent liquor stronger than wine.

She pushed it toward Damian and commanded, "Drink." His wound was already causing him great pain, and she knew one of the plants she had taken would only worsen his suffering before taking effect.

For a moment, she expected him to decline, but it seemed he had committed himself to her care and would object no more. Sweeping up the vessel, he drew a long swig, feeling the liquid burn down his throat and settle in his belly. It lingered in the back of his throat and nose, making his eyes prick with the heat, and as the burn faded a slight sweetness spread across his tongue. Meanwhile, Iliana had dampened a piece of cloth with fresh water and knelt beside him to clean the wound before she dressed it. She waited for Damian to take another, longer gulp, and he set the vessel on the tabletop once more and steeled himself for her care.

Gingerly, she touched the damp cloth to his wound, hearing the sharp inhale that was the only signal of his pain, and applied slight pressure to be sure the skin was cleaned. The cloth stuck to his blistered skin, forcing her to peel it away, and she frowned with the effort to be gentle. He did not move even to allow breath into his lungs, and she replaced the towel a little lower, working her way along the wound. The angry, violent red skin protruding from his ribs was a constant reminder to take care. He hid his pain well, but when she reached the lower section of the lesion where the metal had done its worst, he jerked at the touch of the compress. Immediately, Iliana bent forward, pursed her lips, and blew a steady stream of cool air along the area she had already tended. His skin shuddered subtly, and she glanced up to gauge whether it was pain only to find his eyes closed and features knotted. Eyes still directed toward his face, she inhaled and repeated the same action, daring a bit closer to be sure he felt the cool touch. She watched his strong neck compress and release as he swallowed heavily, and an unknown sensation settled deep within her gut, tense as though anticipating something she couldn't understand and faintly shivering in excitement. She found her own mouth dry and throat tight, but she pursed her lips again and blew the same, slow, soft stream of air, feeling her waist flex as she bent down to reach the length of it and somehow the tense muscles magnified the feeling within. Her eyes flickered shut momentarily as her attention turned to the sensation, trying to understand it and how it pulsed out through her limbs, yearning for something… When they opened once more, they strayed beyond the limitations of his wound to his naked skin stained with ashes and glistening with sweat, providing an odd exchange of shade and light to carve out the lines of his chest. Faintly, he ribs prodded through the muscle and skin, stretching and compressing with each uneven breath he drew, and she wished for nothing more than to follow the lines with her fingers as if etching out the body of this man for whom she had thirsted for so long.

She reached the edge of his wound and realized her wandering attention and the ardent turn of her thoughts. A fresh blush charged into her cheeks, and she bowed her head to hide it while she flattened her palm on the tabletop and helped stand onto her feet. She was even more alarmed and mortified to discover how weak her knees felt and wished she could throw the cold water onto her face to cool the fire burning through her. It shamed her to be so young and inexperienced to react this hotly, and she barely noticed how she chopped the leaves of one plant and extracted the juices from the other, forming a paste between the two.

The former was an old, medicinal herb they often used for all manner of injuries, and it was made infamous for the pain it inflicted while its healing sap mended all wounds. When she was a child and had been playing with her brothers, she had slipped and sliced open her foot on a rock. Her mother chopped some of the plant's leaves and placed them on the open wound, and Iliana had cried as it felt like her foot had been doused in flames. Each day the wound throbbed angrily until the pain pulsed all the way to her knee, and each day her mother fussed at her to place her weight on the herbs bundled against her sole so that the juices would ease into the wound. She limped for two days, but when the bandage was removed and her wound considered, the cut had scabbed and was healing, almost miraculously.

She couldn't anticipate how the herb would affect his fresh burn, but she added the sap from the other leaves which were known to have a cooling and calming effect, thinking it might ease the pain. Once the paste was fully incorporated, she turned her attention to Damian who was drawing another, thick swig from the vessel. Undoubtedly he had recognized the herbs she mixed, and her features softened sympathetically. His eyes found her, hooded and dark, and they hammered directly into her belly as if commanding the growing tension knotted there. She was the one to swallow uneasily as she knelt beside him once more, and her body recognized the proximity and position with the effect of her heart thumping pitifully in her chest. Taking some of the balm between her fingers, she raised it to the top of his wound where the burn was not so severe, hesitated, and quickly smoothed it across the skin. His body settled to stone beside her neither fighting nor fleeing, and she attempted to move swiftly but was curbed by her compassion. Her other hand cupped the skin beside his wound, more for her own benefit than his. The balm met the worst part of his injury. He jerked as he had with the compress though more violently, and she swept her thumb gently across his skin as though that could offer him any comfort.

"I know…" she muttered softly and used the final bit of balm to smooth evenly over the whole wound, and she reached for the dressing. "Lean forward. Lift your arms," she commanded, and he obeyed without hesitation so that she could wind the cloth around him. The herbs stained the linen yellow, and she continued to wrap and layer the cloth until there was no sign of the wound or space for the balm to seep out.

She tied off the ends and eased backed onto her heels, realizing faintly that a light sweat had gathered on her brow. She tilted her head back to look to Damian. Though his features were contorted, his dark eyes opened and swept across her as if assessing her state. When they settled on her own eyes, her instinct was to shy from him, and briefly her gaze fell to her knees before an unwarranted bout of courage lifted them once more.

_"Don't look away," _Eione's voice chastised immediately. _"You speak with your eyes… Let them say what you wish you could."_

Inhaling shakily, their locked regards kindled a pressure between them as if mirroring the tension building inside her abdomen and painting it for him to see. By effect, his stance was guarded and uncertain, and she felt her brief conviction drying out. Hadn't months of placid inactivity warned her of how hopeless this was?

She looked away, scrambling to pull herself out of this cycle of hope and disappointment, and she parted her lips to say something, anything. Instead, his hand gripped her hair, cupping the base of her neck and wrenching her unapologetically to him. The shock struck her first with such force she was numb and stiff, but that chill was swift to burn away, the paralyzed feeling fading with every pump of her heart racing to wake her. The sweetness of his breath swept between her lips, searing the soft flesh, and his mouth massaged the heat into her skin until her lips were burning from him and for want of him. Her hands had unconsciously caught his knees and clasped her fingers against the bone to steady herself, and her grip provided more leverage as her thirst consumed her. She drove forward bounding off her heels to balance on her knees, and he rewarded her by catching her waist with his other hand and helping support her even his mouth bore down on her and forced her neck back. It felt like they were two worlds colliding recklessly and inelegantly into one another, all burn and no question. The levy from months of shared glances had broken and taken no prisoners. She had envisioned something sweeter in a kiss and could never have prepared herself for the desire rushing through her. Her hands still steadied her on his knees, her final grip keeping her from submitting fully to him, though he soon yanked at her waist as if to gather her into his lap. Her grip slipped, and her body fell forward, digging his knees into her belly and making her hold to his chest then so that she didn't crumble into his arms.

He groaned low in his throat, and she tore her hands away as she registered the touch of linen against her palms, rebounding with such force she nearly tumbled over her heels. She was breathless, dizzy, flushing, and she feared guiltily she had injured him though she couldn't bear to see for herself.

"Forgive me," she murmured in a voice much raspier than usual, and she cleared her throat as if that could cure her throbbing desire. "I didn't mean…"

"Iliana," he said near a growl, and uncertainly, her gaze darted up through her lashes to consider him. He was smiling wryly though without humor, those dark eyes resonating within her like a howl. "You can't understand what you do to me."

She blushed a fresh, raw shade of red even as her heart paused inside her, and she wet her lips as she sought a way to answer such a comment. They were swollen and tasted sweet like ouzo, like his kiss, and the sensation unraveled horrible, new thoughts to taint her mind. Couldn't he see what he did to her?

A curt knock on the door interrupted their exchange followed by the healer calling out, "Damian… Eber's boy found me. He said it was urgent."

In an instance, Iliana bounded onto her feet with an agility which evaded her only moments earlier. Her features paled while Damian cursed Pelicles' name beneath his breath and stood as well.

"I must leave," the Princess whispered gently as if the old healer could possibly hear them within and stole her veil from the table to wind about her hair once more. She realized her fingers were stained yellow from the balm as though she were marked from their encounter, and she promptly curled her hands into fists to hide the discoloration.

"Yes," he agreed reluctantly, and she realized his mood had shifted like a pendulum swinging to the opposite of spectrum. "Go through the back. No one will notice you."

She nodded her assent and hurried toward the threshold leading to the rest of the home, only to feel a grip on her arm restrain her and jerk her into him. She tumbled into his chest without the grace to twist and catch herself, and his lips smothered any objections from her. Her body submitted easily to his assault, her knees almost buckled, but he gripped her close, kissing away her equilibrium. When he released, he couldn't fully remove his grip, and she unsteadily gripped onto his arms for the balance to right herself.

"We will meet again soon," he said, but it resonated as a command to which to nodded her assent obediently.

Finally she stepped away from him, easing back with her gaze tangled in his own, and she swore there was a hint of a playful smile hiding in the blackness despite his aggravated expression. She flushed and turned, hurrying through the back of the home without registering its contents or lines and out the back where the cool air swept across her, fanning her skin while her insides were tumultuous and burning as a fire pit. She paused to adjust her veil and dress for safe measure, somehow fearing she was wearing the encounter on her. The taste of him lingered on her lips like the sensation of his skin on her own, and she struggled not to tumble backwards into the dizzing fall of her lust.

_What would Mother say to see me like this?_ she wondered in the most ill-timed of self-reflections and promptly brushed the thought aside. It lingered in the base of her mind, and she stepped out from the shadow of the forge and hurried across the center of the town which was oddly vacant as the residents took a break from their work. It was late afternoon judging by the falling sun, angle of shadows, and reddening of the sky. Her pace quickened, sensing she had been gone much longer than she had anticipated. Suppose someone sent for her at Eione's?

_Oh you foolish, foolish girl!_ she condemned herself and walked brusquely toward her home.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hello my lovelies! Argh I'm such a slow poke lately. In my defense, I've been preoccupied writing much less gratifying things like a 25-page research paper... but I never forget! This is the one thing that keeps me sane, and I was so excited for this chapter because of Iliana and Damian! I was going to make this happen sooner but decided to be mean and delay it haha Oh the things I have planned... I've hinted at the skeletons in Damian's closet, but I can't wait for the big reveal in a few more chapters :))

Thank you as always to my favorite ladies AmyLNelson and klandgraf2007 for their sweet reviews!

Amy: Long time, no read again? haha Ah! I'm so happy you liked the last chapter. I was so, so excited about it, but I didn't want to give it away. I was like, 'Bear with me! Shit's gunna go down! I promise!' Bonding time in the woods... Basically, but that sounds so funny, doesn't it? Like campfires and s'mores and kumbayah. Hope you liked this chapter as well if it wasn't as action-packed :D xoxo

klandgraf: Full on action and drama! Such describes my writing style in its true essence haha And that chapter was definitely the epitome -thus far. Oh gurl, you know I got more craziness in store :)) Yes, I understand the comparison between Haemon and Hector, which I expect and welcome. Haemon's had to fight his whole life, so he's less bound by honor like Hector was. I big plans for my boy, though, so hopefully you'll begin to see a shift. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thanks for the kinds words! xoxo


	10. Hold Your Hand among the Flames

Chapter 10  
"Hold Your Hand among the Flames"

The old stallion shook its heavy, grey and white-spotted head, tossed its mane, and neighed agitatedly through its shuddering nostrils. It had been trained to pull carts full of a farmer's harvest to market, not to carry a rouge prince and princess up the mountainside. Its hooves sunk into the soil still moist from weeks of rain, and one slipped, startling the horse who reared back, retreating, and screeched shrilly in protest.

"Easy!" Haemon called over its braying, compressed his legs around the animal's chest to still it, and gripped the reigns tightly. "Easy…"

The horse shook its head again, as if refusing to continue, and it took more than one forceful brunt of Haemon's heels in between its ribs to convince it otherwise.

"This is dangerous," Aurora grumbled discontentedly, and the brief scare was enough to make her hold tighter to Haemon's waist so that she mostly spoke against his shoulder, the rough fabric of his cloak scratching at her cheek. It was a welcome distraction from the narrow, muddy path they were taking through the forest and up the mountainside.

"You said," he corrected, slightly out of breath and voice crackling with aggravation, "that this is the swiftest path to reach Lovisa."

He guided the horse up a stiffer incline and leaned forward to balance atop the steed, which required bringing Aurora with him. In the few hours since he had stolen the horse—admittedly a first for the Prince who couldn't deny his feelings of guilt when he saw the aged, gaunt farmer tending to his drowned crops—it had become more than apparent that Aurora was not an accomplished rider. Already, he could hear the slight wheezing of her breath from weariness, and she had abandoned any pretenses of her stamina and gripped to him as her legs lost the strength to hold her steady amid the changes in terrain. He couldn't condemn her for her frailty, but it was costly as his body struggled harder to support them both and even out her weight when she teetered off balance more than once.

"And that no one dares travel it after summer because of the Fall rains," she countered in one sharp exhale, then sucking in another thick gulp of air. For hours now their joint frustrations had multiplied, goading each other, until the air was static around them with unspoken words and harsh thoughts.

Haemon noticed a flattening in the terrain ahead, and he didn't hesitate to coax the horse to a still and decide, "We'll rest here for a moment."

Her arms released him, making him aware of the slight dampening on his shirt where the heat had caught between her arms and his stomach and drawn a small pool of sweat. Somehow that aggravated him as well for the cool afternoon chilled his skin, and he slid from the horse with a growing frown and turned to help Aurora alight. Her palms were heavy on his shoulders as she eased her weight into his hands at her waist, and when her feet met the ground, the extent of her tired limbs overcame her. Her knee buckled without her consent and sent her toppling face first into Haemon's chest. She groaned faintly while she held onto his arms and felt him right her atop her feet, but she didn't have the chance to regain her composure before a cramp seized her thigh. Within seconds the muscle clutched to her bone, making it impossible to bend her leg, and she hissed in aggravation as this mortifying series of events unfolded and preyed upon her foul mood.

Haemon eased her onto the ground and squatted beside her, and without question, his rough hands took her thigh between them and began kneading his thumbs and fingers into the flesh. Her muted cry of pain was caught within a sharp inhale, and she tore at his hands to stop their brutal siege. He ignored her as if she were a insect nipping at his skin, and she swore he dug his thumbs in deeper, making her mouth fall open with a silent keen. Her other leg writhed on the ground, bending, flexing, twisting, and she gritted her teeth abruptly and leaned back on her palms where the dirt and small twigs dug into her skin. Her chin buried against her collarbones, making her glare through her eyelashes at him, though his attention was on his hands working their way along her thigh in a way that humiliated, infuriated, and roused her. The fabric pulled taut around her leg so that he could see his work, and as his fingers drew higher, circling to grip both her outer and inner thigh, she swallowed thickly in an attempt to dislodge her heart from its refuge in her throat. Its pace encouraged a fresh flush into her cheeks, and the pain throbbed in her leg, spreading up to her belly and sliding between her thighs, where she shamefully feared his touch might reach. Her hips sifted through the growing tension his hands were kindling, craving for something to soothe the tender pulsing, and her jaw released abruptly.

"Please," she whimpered in a stony voice. "Stop."

At last, he glimpsed at her, and her chagrin was made complete, for she knew she could not veil the smoldering in her eyes. She had spent hours pressed against his back with his cloak scratching at the gash in her dress where the skin was tender and vulnerable and feeling the flex of his muscles in his abdomen and legs holding them steady. She couldn't bear to feel his hands on her too -not there. Mercifully, he removed them. Her body sighed, her leg relaxed, and though the muscle still twitched and threatened to seize again, it was warm and shivering from his attention.

He rested his forearms on his knees and commented, "You're a poor rider."

Even if it were brash and tactless, she couldn't feel insulted considering its truth. "My father taught me when I was young," she confessed, "but I rarely have cause to ride and never for extended times."

"You need to train yourself to hold your own weight."

"I won't grow stronger in one day, Haemon," she said stiffly and curled her legs, bringing her heels toward her bottom and away from his hands, "and you insist on taking this trail."

"Our greatest enemy is time," the Prince explained and craned his neck back to look through the trees at the sun's position in the sky. "We've not made much progress."

"And you blame me," she snapped for her nerves had been spread thinly from lack of sleep and food. "What of the old horse you picked?"

Similarly, his gaze cut back to her, reflecting her anger with the slight simmering in his chestnut depths as if she were pinning his faults to his chest, and the look he bestowed her was enough to silence her errant tongue.

He straightened his legs so that he towered over her and blocked out the sun with his thick head of hair, and he abandoned her to tend to the horse.

Her eyes flattened where they gazed after him, and growling beneath her breath, she gathered herself and stood atop shaky legs. Her previously pained one was the weaker, and she was careful not to flex the muscle less it turn on her once more. She frowned deeply, thinking he was already forcing them to continue their journey, but rather, he tied the horse's reigns to a nearby tree and faced Aurora with unreadable resolve carving out his face.

"You can't ride… You can't fight…" He drew closer to her with each step magnifying her frustration and the bite of his words until he paused a few paces from her and wondered, "How do you expect to survive?"

A short, hot breath left her lips like steam blowing off her irritation, and his every word against her was a gust to feed the fire growing in her belly. "I don't know," she answered coldly and curled her hands to fists at her sides. When his expression made no change, she added, "Atlan taught me to protect myself."

The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them as flashes of their ambush a day earlier passed through her mind's eye. She had not fought off her attackers as well as he might have, but she had saved him –killed a man before Haemon could be hurt.

Perhaps he didn't remember for he prompted, "Show me," and her shoulders dropped in exacerbation.

_You know I cannot outmatch you!_ her mind snarled. _Do you plan to humiliate me further?_

As though he could read her thoughts, he answered, "I need to know that you can defend yourself if the time comes."

"I defended you," she pointed out, less arrogantly than as a ploy to deflect any grappling between them. He could overtake, defeat, and even kill her with barely an effort on his part, and even the thought of charging at him sent a cowardly tremor down her spine. She saw what he was capable of… It unearthed a cold terror to gnaw at her insides.

"That was luck. You caught him unaware." His tone distracted her from memories of that man's crushed face, and her features flickered with intrigue as they looked upon him. Was he commending her? "But you did not fair so well when you were attacked."

A bitter part of her thought to point out that _she _was caught unaware, but cooler heads prevailed and forced her gaze to fall to the ground.

"You can't surrender before we've begun," he said sharply, "and our time is limited."

She filled her lungs with the cool, crisp mountain air, feeling the pressure still her momentarily, but as her chest deflated, the troubled nerves crowded into the empty cavern. Likewise, the expectant pressure between them built with the sense that she would need to face him and assume this challenge, but she couldn't gather the courage.

"I'm afraid you'll hurt me."

Silence met her for he was taken off guard as if her words were a sharp dagger in his back, and he frowned until his brow ached with the strain. "I would not hurt you, Aurora."

"And yesterday…?" she prompted and finally dared to meet his gaze.

Her eyes were at once accusatory and fearful, digging the blade deeper between his shoulder blades until he grimaced and recalled how he had cornered her against the tree, his hand to her throat even as she begged him to stop…

"Since we've met," she charged onward, having said too much now to retreat, "you've pushed my limits as if you want me to fight you."

"I want you to stand up to me," he amended. "I won't hurt you. You can speak honestly with me—I won't punish you. I need a woman at my side, not a scared little girl."

"Is that what you think of me?... Have I not lost everything?" she asked, and her voice began to tremble with her hands as her mind unwound this thought.

"What have you lost?" he countered. "Your family is dead. You have no friends–"

"What do you know!" she spat, her face flush in sudden fury. His words bit her like venom, hammered beneath her thin skin to puncture her chest, and stung her eyes, and she was too exhausted to fight the rush of anger flaming through her. "You know nothing of what I've endured!"

"I know better than any!" he snapped. "I lost my family, my home, my future, and when I fell, there was no plush bed to catch me or flocks of servants to tend to me. I had to survive. I had to fight. You expect me to pity you? You expect me to carry you?"

His dark eyes pulsed from his glacial features, kicking her after his words had knocked her down, a potent punch in each, and she returned his look though she was crumbling where he stood tall. Always they stood at opposite ends of the spectrum, and she couldn't find a way to meet him. She didn't want to be weak. She didn't want to fail, but she was so exhausted. Years she had suffered in silence, and all she wanted was to scream. Her lips trembled, and the first hot sting of tear falling down her cheek filled her with shame. It betrayed her weakness, and she turned away to hide it.

"We've lingered too long," he called to her and untied the reigns from the tree. "We need to ride on and find a place to camp for the night."

She hastily wiped away the moist trail along with its twin on her other cheek and inhaled with the hope the cool air would calm her nerves, but it felt like her whole body was shivering and shaking. She was not a fighter, and even their brief, heated exchange of words had rattled her foundations. Realizing there would be no peace for her, no swift remedy to her ease nerves, she followed after him and only tried to keep her tears silent.

He mounted the horse and reached down to take her hand and help her, but when she placed her other palm on the horse's back behind him, he intervened, "No."

Initially, she retracted her hand, confused, but then she understood he meant for her to ride in front of him. The implication was a fresh scourge to her raw nerves. "I'm not a child," she countered in spite of her shimmering eyes.

"You haven't slept, you've barely eaten, and you're exhausted," he said flatly. "It's easier to hold you if you sit before me."

Yet again his words were lashes to her skin, but he was right. _You can't ride… You can't fight… _Face vacant in surrender, she allowed him to gather her onto the horse and felt him arrange her between his arms like iron bars locking her away. Her tears had dried up to her surprise, but even she couldn't feel triumphant in that respect since Haemon had already seen them stain her face. She tangled her fingers in the horse's mane with the willful intent to hold herself upright so that she would not place her weight on him. _You can be strong_, a kinder voice whispered to her, and she swallowed the lump in her throat and sat proudly before him. Even when the terrain grew unsteady, she preserved, spurned by her own vain stubbornness, but it could not support her drained body. The sleeplessness and physical demands of their journey weighed on her head and shoulders, causing her to sway as the ground grew uneven, and his arm swiftly caught her before she bent too far off balance. She rebounded as if his skin shocked her, bobbing into alignment once more, but within minutes, her shoulders were sagging and coaxing a steady curve into her spine as if she were doubling in on herself.

"You've made your point," he grumbled as his arm snaked around her waist and eased her weight back to him.

_No!_ her mind snapped, and her grip remained tangled in the horse's mane, fighting poorly against his strength with a final, headstrong need to prove herself.

The path inclined, adding gravity's hand to draw her back, and the weight on her shoulders was more than her body could bear. All at once her grip surrendered, sending her bounding into his chest where his arm trapped her. For the effort it took to keep her body perfectly still and perfectly angled away from him, it was so much easier to relax against him and allow him to carry her. Her pride pulsed as an angry wound, drumming inside her like a battle march, but she was too tired to continue their campaign –not this day. Despite her annoyance, his hold was comfortable and warm, and with a heavier sigh, she capitulated more of her body into his care. He didn't bow the slightest under the pressure, only rearranging her more to the center of his chest, and then assumed the reigns with both hands. Her whole body was radiating sore, dull pains from her legs, to her stomach, to her arms, and reaching its apex in her head. She eased her eyes closed and uncovered some solace in their black depths where the light couldn't prey on her weary mind. Gingerly, she tilted her head, finding a more comfortable angle for her cheek upon his shoulder, and her nose unwittingly nuzzled against his neck. She felt the coarse grain of his beard on her forehead as though he were bowing his head to survey her, and his searing breath tumbled across her skin for a brief moment. The sensation left her as swiftly, and she couldn't decipher whether it was mercy or disappointment which kept him silent. Groaning softly beneath her breath, she was too exhausted to open her eyes and attempt to unravel this man. He was enigma to her: at times tolerant and clement and others harsh and unforgiving. She didn't care to gamble which side would meet her and sunk deeper into the oppression of darkness. It grew heavier behind her lids, something to hold her under, and she didn't fight its embrace, letting consciousness fade and sleep take her.

‡‡‡

Upon a heavy shroud of black, the stars glittered like lost jewels, and Artemis' pregnant moon bore its full light on Latium, calling dense breezes from the sea to sprint across the lands and rush to the capital. Fires shuddered, the fabric tangled in the trees and crackled in the wind, but even the goddess' mischievous attempts to disrupt their celebration could not distract the Albans who kindled and were consumed by the revelry. Numerous tables had been drawn into the town center upon which platters of roasted pork and lamb, fresh fruits, and more piled alongside never-ending pitchers of wine and _tsipouro_. The tables were dressed with their own intermittent boughs and candles, though no more light was needed given the roaring fire they had built in the center. The scent of ashes somehow made the smell of meats and fresh flowers the sweeter, and two rowdy, young Alban boys were charged with trimming the flame from growing too great. More appropriately, they distracted themselves with tossing various objects into the blazes to see how they shriveled, burst, or shrieked, and one father had to take them by the scruff of their necks and coarsely remind them of their purpose after they tossed the fat from a pig into the flames and nearly caught fire themselves.

The other Albans were gathered along the tables or even seated in the grass around the great fire, and some of the citizens shucked their usual duties as potters, farmers, or weavers and took up their instruments in song. They were graced with a middle-aged mason whose voice was a gift from Apollo himself, and he led the small ensemble into song after song, embellished with his own flourishes which reinvigorated the folk tunes and drew the Albans onto their feet to dance through the unpaved roads until they were dizzy and sweating. Their princess was among them and not to be outdone for Aeneas had taught her to dance while she was still a babe, and the pair were a sight to behold as they danced alongside the flames while their countrymen stamped out the tempo with their feet and clapped along. Aeneas took his daughter around the waist, hoisting her through the air, and she burst into a fit of laughter and twirled beneath his arm once he set her atop her toes again. She spun around him, pausing once she reached his other side, and looped her arm through his so that he could guide her farther on around the outskirts of the fire. The flames illuminated the Alban King's features, revealing the untamed grin directed at his daughter, and she as eagerly returned it, smiling so genuinely that her cheeks ached with the effort.

The music waned and assumed a steady beat as the tune shifted from one to another, and it was a wonder the player's fingers were not bleeding as he strummed the lyre endlessly.

Aeneas released Iliana with an exhausted sigh. "Let one of your brothers take over, or you'll need to throw me into the fire!"

"You can't stand aside at your own celebration," the young woman chided while still dancing to the beat around her father and clapping her hands as if to encourage him.

"I can do as I please," he corrected and placed a hand on her arm to keep her still for a moment like she were a feverish child who could not be calmed. "It's one of the benefits of being king."

"Very well," she muttered and pursed her lips in playful disapproval. "We'll enjoy the revelry for you!"

Her face was alight in a soft flush from the dancing and the amount of _tsipouro_ and wine she had consumed, and it assigned a warmth to her chestnut eyes where the flames flickered in their depths. A crown of flowers had been weaved into her hair, imparting their pleasant scent like a perfume to the air about her, and she wore her favorite dark blue gown which gathered with beautiful, intricate lacing at her shoulders. The material was fitted seamlessly to follow the curve of each breast and beyond, where it reached her stomach and a sliver of bronze skin glistened in the fire's light, the shade revealing the depression between her breasts and delicate structure of her collarbones. A thin, almost invisible strand of gold hung from her neck, and at its lowest point, a small pendant of gold and turquoise dared nearly as far as the cut of her dress and glittered against her skin. It had been a present from her mother on a birthday long past, and she treasured it dearly, only wearing it on special occasions. Thin bangles crowned one slender wrist and made a pleasant succession of clinks when she danced, while her feet were bare for she enjoyed the cool feel of the grass beneath them. Though she celebrated alongside her people, she could seem no farther from them in appearance than now –like a true, albeit untamed, princess.

"Excuse me, My King," Eione chimed unexpectedly as her slender arm slid around Iliana's waist and spun them both rather recklessly toward the fire.

Iliana broke into laughter once more, having been taken off guard and off balance, and she tumbled into her sister-in-law who wrapped both arms around the young woman's waist to steady her and spun them once more.

"Enjoying yourself?" Eione prompted and grinned omnisciently while keeping a firm grip on the princess.

"It's the wine," she confessed with a somewhat flustered and contrite smile, knowing how out of character it was for her to indulge, but it had been a foolish oversight on her part. Preparing for tonight, she knew who would be among the Alban ranks, and the anxiety which wrought her at the thought of seeing him, so soon, after their last encounter… She had been too timid to visit him again before the celebration and could not guess at the completion of her father's blade. She worried Damian would be insulted, but could he not understand her apprehension? Her stomach was too knotted to desire food this night, and so she had busied herself at the table beside her kin by nursing cup after cup.

"I won't tell," Eione promised and winked confidentially before taking Iliana's hands and twirling her. The scenery swirled before her eyes, compounded with the rush of alcohol to her head, and abruptly a cold sweat broke across her brow and caused her to link her arms around Eione's waist.

"No more turning," she begged breathlessly.

"Why don't we rest and wait for a better song?" Eione suggested instead, and the princess nodded her assent. Gently Eione unwound Iliana's arms, looped each of theirs together, and guided her toward the main table where Aeneas was seated at the center and in deep discussion with one of his lieutenants, to Iliana's luck. She sat at the edge of the table, away from her father's probbing gaze, and felt immediately relieved to be off her feet and supported by the bench. The cool air rushed around her, pricking at her warm cheeks and flooding her lungs in a way that calmed her instantly. Her heart raced on, but the dizziness which made her head toss like a ship upon a turbulent sea was fading with every beat.

"I need to check on Chara. Will you fair without me?"

Iliana smiled humbly, embarrassed to be in this state but pleased to have someone as understanding as Eione to keep an eye on her. "Yes," she assured the older woman. "I only need to rest a moment."

Eione touched her shoulder before turning to tend to her infant daughter and leaving Iliana in peaceful stillness. She eased her elbows onto the table and cupped her chin in one palm, feeling how it supported the heaviness consuming her head and gave her even greater solace. She inhaled the crisp air into her lungs, sensing it almost crackle inside her, and the band ceased its playing and called all attentions to their ranks to understand why the music stopped.

"My friends!" the mason called out once, twice, three times, until he was satisfied that all were listening. "Still your feet a moment and open your ears. Our great King, who we all honor tonight, wishes to speak."

Appropriately, attentions turned to the Alban King who stood from his place at the table and smiled broadly. He took a beat to simply stand and gaze across the mass of people before he began, "My countrymen." He shook his head and amended, "My brothers and sisters… You humble me with your tribute and exhaust me with your energy." The crowd laughed subtly, and Aeneas grinned, his handsome face alight with fondness and pride. "No king has faced more love and constant devotion, and I am ever surprised by your tenacity and courage. Even with the threat of Umbria to tarnish your spirits, you've gathered before me and assembled a celebration. While you honor my life, I wish to defer to each of you for you are the blood and bones and hope upon which our city was built, and against all odds, we have prospered –because of you."

"My Lady," a raspy voice called from her side, and Iliana jerked to attention, snapping her head toward him and coming eye-to-eye with Damian who had knelt beside her while she was listening to her father. The King still spoke behind them, his rich baritone harkening in the background, but Iliana's focus was concentrated on the blacksmith, so near to her and calling a fresh blush into her cheeks. Naively, she had thought the wine would give her the courage to face him, but somehow it only magnified the sway he held over her. Her attention was enraptured in his face, finding his tanned skin clean of its usual ashes and beard freshly trimmed so that there was nothing to deter his features, and her attraction awoke as if from a slumber, sitting upright and drowsily mesmerized by its object.

"You did not come to collect it," he continued in the same measured tone, and she realized firstly that he was offering the blade wrapped in material and tied with twine to her and secondly that his dark eyes were closed to her. So she had insulted him.

Her heart was thundering in her chest, and she wished he could see within her mind to spare her the embarrassment and challenge of expressing the multitude of allure, lust, and fear his mere presence could unlock. Her tongue was tied, and so she took the present from him if only to make some advance in the silence. He began to stand, but she impulsively placed a hand on his forearm, causing him glance at her in shock. Realizing what she had done, in public, for any wandering eye to see, she quickly retracted her hand, but she had gained his attention.

"I want to speak with you –tonight," she said, and it shot from her lips like a confession, reinvigorating her flush.

A small V formed between his brows, and his gaze dared toward the crowd to be sure none were watching before he nodded curtly and rose to his feet. His movement was slow and reminded her of the wound at his side, and she frowned with concern though it went unnoticed as Damian joined the crowd.

"So let us drink to our triumphs," Aeneas finished while lifting his chalice into the air, "To Alba Longa!"

"To Alba Longa!" the crowd resounded in unity as if one force answering their King's call, and soon voices were stifled as cups emptied.

In the silence, Iliana saw the opportunity to present her gift and rose to her feet, nearly rolling her eyes in exasperation when she discovered her knees still weak in Damian's wake. _He did not even touch you! _Perhaps this was the effect of the wine… She gathered the blade in both hands, balancing it in her palms and edged around the table where she could approach her father.

The King was preoccupied looking out at his people who were joined in a burst of camaraderie from his speech and did not notice Iliana's presence until she called to him, "Father."

Aeneas turned promptly to face his daughter, and his blue eyes swept down to the package in her hands which she held out for him to take.

"A gift," she said and smiled widely for the look of genuine shock passing across Aeneas' face. "It is something that you've long needed –that Alba Longa has needed."

His surprise ebbed slightly, making room for the pleased smile growing on his face, and he glanced at his daughter while wondering, "What have you done?"

"Open it," she prompted with childish impatience, their locked regards kindling an electric excitement between them.

He chuckled lightly and took his seat while bidding her to sit as well.

Sighing as he found any reason to delay, Iliana nearly pounced into the vacant space beside him and drew even closer to look over his arm for she had not seen the blade and was as eager if not more so than her father. He unknotted the twine at the top of the package and carefully unwound it with a calmness not mutually felt by his daughter. She resisted the urge to reach past him and rip open the material herself and folded her hands in her lap to be sure they did not take action. At length, he tossed the thin twine aside and began unraveling the fabric.

"It is heavy…" he muttered, and Iliana bit her lip with pleasure and felt the delight bloom in her chest, aching to reach fruition. She glimpsed at her father and wondered if he were truly clueless as to what she had done or if he were only playing along for her benefit. Had he not memorized the weight and feel of a sword after years as a soldier? The last shroud of fabric remained, and he paused to look at his daughter, sharing with her a final, fateful glance before he threw back the material and gazed upon his gift.

Immediately Iliana pressed against her father's arm to see the blade clearly, and the breath was stolen from her lungs like the sharpness of the blade gleaming in the fire's light. The surface was smooth and undeterred by age and abrasions to tarnish its beauty, and its proportions were masterfully welded with perfect symmetry. Along the right portion of the blade ancient symbols were carved into the bronze, deeper closer to the center where the metal was thicker and expertly thinned as they drew near the edge.

Aeneas traced his finger along those engravings with a look of wonder, but Iliana encouraged him, "Turn it."

As if her tone held more promise, he swiftly flipped the blade and allowed them to the see the other side where another grouping of symbols, as exquisite as the first, followed the right edge like a twin of its former face.

"Aphrodite and Apollo," she whispered and looked at Aeneas, reveling more in the stunned admiration he wore than the blade itself.

"Patrons of Alba Longa," he understood and met her gaze, finding her hopeful and uncertain at his estimation. He smiled softly and commended, "Clever and beautiful."

The three words unlocked her full smile like a swell through her whole body, and she wondered, "Do you like it?"

In answer, he turned once more to the blade and twisted it in his grip, oscillating between each side and taking in the work from all angles. "Iliana… It is my favorite gift that I have ever received."

She saw the honesty reverberating in his blue eyes when they found her again, and her own pricked with unexpected emotion.

"How did you manage this?"

"I asked Damian to weld it," she confessed, and the admission returned her thoughts to the blacksmith who was as skilled a craftsman as Hephaestus in her eyes. "It was truly his creation. It is beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes," Aeneas agreed and shook his head in esteem. "I must thank him… But first, I'd like another dance with my plotting daughter."

"I thought you were tired," she teased and grinned.

"Oh," he said as he stood and offered Iliana his hand, "I think I've stood aside long enough."

The pair danced with renewed vigor, called upon by Aeneas' pleasure at his gift, and the same heady rush of blood, wine, and happiness consumed her, growing more tumultuous and reckless with every revolution Aeneas guided her through, turning her, lifting her up, and gamboling as the night wore on. Her eyes were nearly spinning within her head, and she felt less in possession of her body though she knew it was moving to the rhythm and executing every step. Yet her mind was unattached, retreating away for the time so that she did not think, only moved and laughed, and it was unadulterated joy spending such a selfless moment with her father like she were a child again. She was warm, breathless, sweating, and when she dared to glance unprovoked across her father's shoulder, black eyes trapped her immediately and sent her spiraling back into the confines of her head. She was dizzy and giddy from the sudden descent, and her mind sprinted to process the image, recognizing Damian standing at the edge and smiling as he watched her. The telltale blush stained her cheeks, and she smiled weakly at him and tried to maintain her show though she was the heavier footed and less graceful with her father now that she realized their audience. Aeneas only took a greater hold of her arm and guided her through the peaks and pits as he had when she was young.

Still, she was grateful as the song waned, and she could announce, "Now I must rest!"

"Perhaps I'm not so old," Aeneas challenged, and Iliana lifted her eyes toward the heavens emphatically.

"We'll see how long you last…"

She stepped away from him, but Aeneas called after her, "Iliana."

She turned to him expectantly, and he smiled.

"Thank you."

She mirrored his look, even somewhat humbled by his sincerity, and nodded before she excused herself. Rather than returning to the table where her brothers, Eione, and Sera were now speaking, she weaved through the crowd of Albans, scanning their ranks in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner for the blacksmith who could apparently appear and evaporate as he wished. Growing more frustrated by his absence and the drowsiness of wine tugging at her, she finally noticed someone standing apart from the rest beneath one of the trees they had adorned with fabrics and candles. By his silhouette carved against the darkness, she could recognize him. An odd magnetism took hold of her and drew her toward the figure, but as she approached, he turned from the tree and walked toward the forge. This unannounced change confused her, and she slowed her pace until he glanced across his shoulder as if to invite her to follow. The gravity of his brief gaze caught her in its net and towed her after him into the shadows where her eyes struggled to make sense of the darkness, and finally through the threshold.

The sounds of the celebration were a distant drumming from within these now familiar walls where the unattended fire threw soft, hazy light across the space. Her heart sounded too loud for the stillness, and she fretted that he could hear it as well while she searched to find him. Gradually, her sights adjusted, allowing her to make out the space, empty yet crowded with shadows cast by the various piles of weapons. She dared deeper into the confines, treading slowly to be sure she did not step on something with her bare feet, but the wine muddled her sights, stole her grace, and caused her foot to kick a bundle of axes which went tumbling toward her. She inhaled sharply, frozen and shocked, and a rough hand plucked her from the axes' path where they clattered noisily onto the floor. They might have buried into her legs or sliced her bare feet had she not been swept up against him instead, pulled off balance so that she clung to his waist and would not tumble to the floor alongside the weapons.

She dreaded the amount of wine she had consumed in that moment for the inelegance with which she handled herself and the way the alcohol magnified his touch. The clasp of his arm around her, the slight rough brush of calluses where his hand held to her elbow, and the dewiness of sweat on his palm set fire to her nerves, alighting her skin so that every hair stood to attention and yearned to feel the same hand caress it. Her face was buried in the front of his shirt, the pins in her hair digging painfully into her scalp from the pressure, but she held fast to him with her fingers tangled in the back of his shirt as her thoughts lethargically recounted what had happened. Yet his proximity was inducing something else to distract her... One indulgent inhale let her drink in his scent, the burn of ashes warmed by his own musk, and she was intoxicated by remembering and rediscovering him. Oh, she should not have drunk so much!

Swallowing down her chagrin as best she could, she dared to peek from his shirt, feeling her eyelashes untangle as they blinked and gazed up at him. She couldn't anticipate the stern expression awaiting her, and immediately her feet unraveled from beneath her so that she could stand tall and release her grip on him like an errant child scorned from one look.

The rush of embarrassment was a slap of cold water to her face, and she muttered, "I'm sorry," flushed, and hoped that he would not notice it. "I can barely see."

His arm remained fixed to her restraining her movement and bolstering her against him as if she might find a way to completely demolish the interior of his workspace if he allowed her the opportunity. Her heart drummed in her chest, a swifter tempo than any dance that evening, and she wished he would release her so that she could think clearly as though she needed to burst through the surface of his spell and catch a breath of air.

"How much have you drunk?" he questioned rhetorically and frowned in disapproval.

"I was nervous," she admitted as her own tongue turned against her, "to see you."

This garnered her half a sardonic smile, at once amused and aggravated. "Am I so terrifying?"

"It's not fear…" _Shut up! Shut up! _her mind screeched at her.

The same smile flickered and died before her eyes, making her nervous that she had displeased him, and he exhaled shortly which she felt more in the compression of chest than the wave of his breath on her face. So he cast a fresh whip to torture and subdue her.

"What is your game?" his already hoarse voice grumbled, and she blinked uncertainly.

"I don't understand."

"You don't come to me, then you wish to speak with me. You're drunk because you're nervous to see me, and yet you give me this look and tease me with…"

As he spoke, his voice grew fainter to an aggravated rumble in his throat, and his head barely needed to bow to draw his nose along the side of her own. The breath shuddered through her parted lips at the touch, the promise of his lips so near hers, and she was clay in his grip to be molded and twisted however he wished. Was he not the one teasing her? She didn't command an ounce of the sway he held over her, and when her neck craned back, it was obedient as if at his silent command. Her lashes were heavy, hanging languidly across her eyes where she could see only his mouth and the line of his jaw so close… The wine made her bolder, and she pressed her body more into his grip to guide him as one of his hands buried in her hair and swept back to cup the base of her neck. Briefly her eyes flickered to his own, gazing into the black depths like a reflection of her private desires, and she wet her lips intemperately and frowned with pent up frustration. How she relived that moment between them, tried to recapture the sensation that flooded her, longed to test it again, see if he could sweep her away. Her heart was shuddering in turmoil, but her mind was too dizzy and intoxicated to put up a fight. Impulsively, her arms held him tighter, drawing him near, and her lips rushed to seize him. The soft yield of his flesh against her unleashed a wash of triumph and unfulfilled need.

"I've wanted you for so long…" the hushed words tumbled from her mouth to his, such a deeply ingrained thought that she did not realize she confessed it aloud.

The combination of the wine and his presence were enough to drive her over the edge and send her into a freefall of raw emotion. His hand gripped tighter to her head, fingers knotting in her curls, and he tugged, forcing her neck to submit to his full siege where he devoured her, each kiss deepening, growing harder, taking more. She held to his back, digging her fingertips into the muscles to steady herself, and abruptly he hissed through his teeth. In a flash, her hands were torn from him where they had found the wound falling along his side and onto his back, and she was pinned against a wooden post holding up the ceiling, her wrists captured in his palms and forced above her. The wood scratched at her back when she struggled beneath the power of his attack, burning and aching and sore from lack of air. As swiftly, his lips released her, and she sucked in one gasp after another. His forehead pressed into her, yet angled away so that they both shared the same breath.

"You're drunk," he groaned in frustration, but she stretched to find him once more. Like his weakness, she drew him in, and he kissed her again, abandoning her wrists so that he could grasp her waist. Her palms found his shoulders and blindly rose to cradle his neck, curving her fingers into his curls damp with sweat. Their lips exchanged a mutual hunger and need, and every massage of his kiss kindled the growing fire in her gut. It was insatiable and all-consuming, and she yearned for him to quell it.

Yet he forced himself away again, looking at once wild and haggard and furious. His black gaze pinned her to the post even as he staggered back. "You don't fight fair, Princess." His shoulders rose and compressed with each exhausted breath.

"I don't want to fight," she said, looking as though she might follow after him.

"You don't know what you want, Iliana –least of all right now," he said sternly, once more assuming that disjunctive tone of disapproval. It made her feel similarly torn, not knowing is she pleased or insulted him, and she stood still, obedient, against the post while she looked to him with her eyes wide and pulsing. He shook his head as if to throw off a dangerous thought and decided, "You need to sit."

Her body shivered with renewed nerves and unsatisfied lust, but she peeled herself away and found the stool beside the table. He took the one across from her, poured a cup of water, and pushed it toward her.

"Drink it."

Her chestnut eyes simmered with annoyance, and she drew a timid sip. Her stomach turned immediately as if the water were an enemy substance charging it, and she grimaced with distaste.

"All of it."

"I don't want it," she snapped stiffly, unaccustomed to being commanded.

"You'll be sick tomorrow," he warned. "If you wish to leave, leave. Otherwise, drink."

She narrowed her eyes and realized he was mimicking her demanding tone two days earlier, and she could better understand how aggravated he had been now that she stood in his place. She reluctantly nursed the cup, forcing down one sip after another even as her stomach curled to fight it, because she would rather endure this than leave his side. She groaned beneath her breath once the cup was empty, frowning, and pushed it away from her.

"Good," he commended and offered a piece of bread. "Now eat."

"I'd prefer to sleep," she muttered for the seductive pull of sleep was tugging at her again, but she took the bread, tore it in her hands, and sniffed it with distaste. Nothing appealed to her… nothing but him.

The edges of his lips hiccupped in a smile. "I know."

She placed a small morsel of bread between her teeth and chewed, feeling that it was dry and tasteless in her mouth. Her nose wrinkled, and she flashed her untamed eyes at him for forcing this upon her.

Rather than looking put off, his smile flourished into a grin, and he even chuckled under his breath. "You shouldn't drink, Princess. You don't have the stomach for it."

She swallowed and pursed her lips. "Never again."

"Good…" He watched her attempt another similarly miniscule piece and commented, "Your brothers should keep a better watch on you."

"I don't need a chaperone."

His brow arched frankly, drawing her attention to their very situation, hidden away in his home where mere minutes ago they were lunging at each other.

The blood rose to her cheeks, and she shyly looked at the crusty bread in her hands. "You didn't send me away…"

"No, I didn't," he acknowledged, and she realized the smile had receded, bowing to another severe look. "But I won't touch you again… Not unless I speak to your father."

She sucked in a sharp breath, oblivious to the piece of bread still in her teeth, and it lodged in her throat and sent her into a fit of coughs while she clutched at her chest and tears sprung in her eyes. At last she could breathe again, though the uneven rhythm hardly gave her the space to consume each gasp of air before she exhaled it again. Her gaze spun to find him, and she discovered his elbow on the table, curled fist covering his mouth so that she couldn't tell from its shape if he were pleased or angry.

Her eyes blinked away the tears, the flush still pulsing in her cheeks, and she sputtered, "What?"

"We should speak about this when you're in a better mind for it," he decided, and Iliana's palms flattened on the table as she stared at him in utter shock.

"No. You can't say something like that and abandon it!"

His fist dropped as well, but she discovered behind it there lay nothing but a resolved expression that gave nothing away. As though explaining, he said, "You deserve more than a man who would prey on your innocence and inexperience and take you for his own."

"You haven't…" His brow knit, and she understood, _You wanted to_.

"I tried for more than a year to keep my distance," he revealed and looked momentarily disappointed with his failure, "but you made it impossible."

"Why? Why wouldn't you speak to me?" Months their silly, brief glances had sustained, confused, and aggravated her. It was so infinitesimal compared to what she felt now, here, beside him, and surely that must mean there was more waiting to be discovered. Certainly if he felt he should speak to Aeneas...

"Because you deserve more than me."

"A blacksmith?" she grasped, confused by his clipped responses.

"Among other things."

Her face screwed in a frown, and she charged, "My mother was the daughter of a poor fisherman before she was a princess and a queen. I don't care about your station. Haven't I proven that?"

His mouth tensed expectantly, but he dropped his head as if abandoning the thought and grumbled, "We'll discuss this another day."

"No."

"Yes," he said sternly, and his features were worn in the dim light as if exhausted of some nameless burden. "Now you need to return home and sleep."

"You're sending me away?"

"Don't let your pride blind you... I've told you my intentions."

An angry, childish, drunk piece of her wished to rush through the door and slam it behind her, but she was wise enough to know that course action would benefit neither of them. She didn't wish to play silly games anymore, and she wouldn't fall victim to her pride and run away when she so desperately wanted to stay and speak with him. She sat a beat longer, listened to the quiet crackle of the fire dying beside them, and worked through the tangle of emotions and thoughts colliding inside her. Her gaze had fallen to the tabletop where her palms still clasped the wood grain, and she answered a deeper desire than her immature vanity when she released one, reached across, and took his hand. It was strong and tough even relaxed in her grip and wrought with calluses along his palm from his tools, and she carefully drew it toward her where she bent and brushed her lips along the pale, thin scars crowning his knuckles. His palm unwound and smoothed across her cheek where the rough skin pricked at her flesh, and her grasp found its hold on his wrist, keeping his hand still, as she turned her face to place her lips in the center of his palm. His thumb brushed across her cheek, and she closed her eyes, feeling it pass along her lashes. A playful smile lifted her lips, and she caught the tip in the prison of her teeth, looking to him when the mask of his fingers curled away from her eyes.

His lips were parted, eyes hardened and enraptured, and steadily he growled, "You'd bring a man to his knees."

Her cheeks flamed, and her sights darted shyly to the table as she released his hand. "Not until he spoke to my father," she commented with more boldness than she could rightly stand behind.

All at once, his hand caught her chin, pulling her forward, but he halted before he could bend to kiss the wit from her lips, tense from the reminder of his promise. He exhaled hotly like a cornered animal, eyes blazing, and strong fingers holding her captive.

"You need to leave," he said, the low throaty tone a warning that sent a tremor shuddering down her spine to settle in her lap.

She was intimidated enough by that look and the promise his dark eyes bore to obey, but he held her longer, drawing his gaze across her rosy, swollen lips. Finally, he freed her and retreated into his seat, and she was gone with only the soft percussion as the door fell shut to keep him company after her.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Hey my loves! Sometimes your muse is a clingy girlfriend who just won't leave you alone until you call her back... That's my explanation for the swiftness with which I wrote this, and my utter lack of productivity on all other fronts (cringe). So, trouble in paradise? I'd like to reiterate something I've been hinting at, which might explain this last scene better. Iliana is a 19-year-old girl who has no experience with men under her belt, meaning she feels naughty about a kiss, and who still believes in the good of people. Conversely, Damian is Haemon's age, if not a little older (29-30+), who is tortured by how much he likes this young woman, aggravated with her inexperience, and charmed by her sincerity. After _Girl in the War_ where Hector broke all the rules with Myrina, I'm sure you guys are like, 'It's just a kiss... like c'mon!' But I'm trying to be true to how an older man, who could be imprisoned or killed for sneaking around with Iliana and who looks at kissing as an appetizer before he hits the main course, would handle the situation. Hopefully you guys will think more of him for it rather than thinking he's a pussy and hating on me for not giving them some fun time haha

Thank you to Miss AmyLNelson for the super sweet review comme toujours! Agh I'm super happy that you're excited about both growing plot lines now! I'll admit, I'd sorta forgotten what I was going to do with Damian and Iliana because I was caught up with Haemon and Aurora, but this time they got the spotlight and the majority of the chapter :)) Hopefully this piqued your interest. I always have to wind up the tension so that things will explode, and I realize that the turn of events with Damian and Iliana was a bit unexpected but hopefully the above explanation helped :/ Let me know what you think, and I hope you liked it! :D xoxo


	11. The Wanderers

Chapter 11  
"The Wanderers"

Lovisa was a small, densely packed town lying among the foothills of the mountains. It was built by shepherds, whose sheep and goats were corralled in poorly constructed stockades and feeding off what little grass had not been drowned in the rain, and weavers who would work the wool into cloth to sell at the market in the capital. When trade persisted and flourished among the southern and central countries, Lovisa acquired a new purpose as a sojourn between the exhaustive High Pass and Barion, and a fresh crop of businesses sprung up from the rocky, sparse ground to accommodate those merchants and travelers who passed through Lovisa's gates. The same brown timber walls fended off attack as it did the encroachment of the forest, and from their stance at the peak of hill, hidden by the trees, Haemon and Aurora could see the trails of smoke creeping up from the buildings inside though they hung low beneath the heavy, grey clouds crowding into the sky to block out the sun and threatening yet more rain.

A sharp crack like a whip echoed across the empty lands, a flash of white, and then the deep rumble of thunder which made her flinch and peek timidly at the sky, wondering how much longer before the seams burst. The electricity sparking through the air fed her nerves until her belly swarmed with restless energy, and her throat was too tight to attempt to speak. A rough hand tugged the hood of her cloak across her head and low upon her brow until she couldn't see the sky any longer around its edge, and instead, she peered out beneath its brim into his features. They were stony, unmoving, warning that he was as consumed by his thoughts at she was hers.

"Keep your hood up," he said even as he made more adjustments to cover her blonde strands and pulled at the front of the cloak to be sure no sign of the red dress beneath seeped through. They were fortunate Atlan packed a spare cloak for them. "No one will recognize you."

She stood perfectly still and erect as he tended to her, but the same confusion wrought her as it always did in these situations. He condemned her for not being strong enough to care for herself, yet he watched over her like she were a child, looking perturbed still but determined as if he were accustomed to this, as if he had protected many before her. This unwarranted attitude was grouped beside the comment he had made to her in the forest days ago, _"We've faced worse. Had all the armies of Greece begging for our heads…"_ and what he had told her after their last clash, _"I lost my family, my home, my future."_ For the hints he sporadically baited her with, he had as many secrets as her, but she couldn't voice the numerous questions swirling around her head. In the wake of their argument, as the frustration swelled between them, and as her body weakened with each day he pushed her up the trail again, silence had seeped in. Even now the sound of his voice discomforted her for it brushed against the bulwarks she had built up to protect herself, and she realized the silence was more uncomfortable to break with every hour they allowed it to pass unacknowledged. Instead, their irritation colored the silence, until she came to hate it as much as their cross words.

Haemon drew his own hood once he was satisfied Aurora had been properly shrouded, and he retied the pouch which Atlan had given them and made sure it was fastened tightly to his waist. It held some money and all of Aurora's jewelry, including the small floral earrings that had been gift from Haemon and which he hadn't seemed to realize she was wearing though he made no comment on it. They needed no reason to call attention to themselves, least of all by their riches, and they would approach the city on foot with their cloaks drawn, their weapons hidden, and their money tucked away. Still, there was no assurance they would find safe lodging or that they would have enough money for whatever their prices were this season.

The thought called a fresh shudder of nerves to consume her, and her heart quickened within her chest. Abruptly her taut throat croaked out, "Suppose they do?"

He glanced at her long enough to appraise her pale, rigid features, before he answered, "You've never left the capital. These people have no reason to know your face."

"They may," she muttered, but Haemon ignored her and took one of the packs across his shoulder. "In the palace, the servants –some of them won't look at me because of my eyes… The peasants tell stories about the night my family was killed."

With all his tasks accomplished, he turned to the Princess, and the focus of his attention solely on her made her bow her head though she continued.

"They speak of me –of the way I look. They say the Keres touched me and that is why my eyes are this way." The same mismatched orbs turned up to consider him, seeking validation for her concerns, but his face was as unyielding as his impenetrable personality. He gave nothing away.

"Keep your head down," he decided shortly and took the reigns in one hand before guiding the horse down the slope and toward the town walls.

Aurora hurried after him while holding fast to the edges of the cloak around her and worrying each time a flash of her sanguine skirt emerged in the gap of her stride. She promptly shortened her gait, forced to take shorter, swifter steps after him, but she kept her head down as instructed and watched the disruption of the fabric billowing across her feet. Every hasty step toward the walls caused her greater agitation, and when Haemon's fist beat loudly against the gate, her body shook as if she felt the repercussion hammer inside her.

A moment later there was a scratch of wood as a narrow piece of the gate was drawn away and beady, blue eyes appeared, straining beneath the weight of an uninterrupted, heavy brow.

His similarly crude voice demanded, "State your purpose!"

"We're travelers," Haemon answered with the inflexible, stout tone that too often made weaker men bend before it, "searching for shelter for the night."

"We?" the guard repeated in his wiry, shriveled tone as he lengthened his neck, his brow disappearing behind the cover of the gate while the crooked bridge of his nose peeked into sight, and he tossed his attention beyond Haemon's broad shoulder to the small figure behind him, buried beneath the weight of too large a cloak and head purposefully bent from his curious gaze. "Who comes with you?"

"My wife," Haemon responded again, but the guard continued to gaze at Aurora, eyes narrowed suspiciously and brow twitching.

Though she could not see it, she felt the oppressive angle of his gaze and glanced to the side across the rocky ground when another flash of lightening illuminated the space. A strand of blonde hair tumbled from the shroud of her cloak, and she nervously tucked it away once more and turned her attention obediently toward her feet.

The guard grumbled something intelligible, and his eyes turned once more to Haemon, discomforted to see the severe look awaiting him though the man foolishly attempted to assert his authority, knowing he was in a rare position to command someone as threatening as the stranger at his gates.

"What is your destination?" he wondered, and Aurora struggled to keep her stance from crumbling at her nerves. Did he suspect them? Had Savas' men warned them?

"The High Pass," Haemon answered yet again with not the slightest strain to his tone, but the rigidity of his posture warned of his aggravation.

Again, an intelligible grumble, and the man's brow flicked above his sharp eyes. "Many have stowed within these walls to keep out of the storm. We've not much room…"

"We'll find our keep," he said sharply with the same effect as the crack of thunder above them. "Will you stand aside?"

The guard's eyes narrowed, an angry twitch mangled his brow, and the peephole was closed in one, swift strike. Aurora's heart was a stampede of anxiety, and she carefully glimpsed from beneath the edge of her cloak to see Haemon had not moved in the slightest. Chastened by his posture, she promptly bowed her head before he took notice. A moment later there was the sound of a wooden bolt sliding away, and then the gate creaked noisily open.

Its yawning complete, Haemon could peer within the walls at Lovisa, the grimy, rowdy town that was nothing like its quaint exterior suggested. The streets were unpaved and muddy from the rain and perhaps something else. The stench impacted him first like the fragrant stool that swine bathed in, and he swallowed to keep his lip from curling as he stepped inside and tugged on the reigns to draw the horse after him. The guard who had been so reticent to allow them entry was now stooped beside the open gate and watching Haemon enter with what he imagined was an aggravation expression, though it was impossible to tell given the man's permanently sour look. Age or disease had wracked his body, and even as he stood with one hand on his hip and the other on the hilt of his sword, his shoulders sagged inward, his chest was concave, and his knees bent permanently to balance out his weight. It seemed someone had hit him over the head as a babe, causing this deformation, but Haemon did not linger on the guard any longer. Rather, he glanced over his shoulder to be sure Aurora followed and noticed inevitably how the guard's interest peeked when she stepped through the threshold, as shrouded and cloaked as possible. The guard grumbled again, almost seeming as though he might say something, but Haemon took Aurora's arm through her cloak, holding tightly and possessively, and pulled her with him. The guard held his tongue, and Haemon listened to the sound of the gate growling closed behind them. The bolt slid into place, and they were locked within the confines of Lovisa.

Aurora's face puckered with the initial onslaught of the smell, so assaulting after the crisp, clean air of the forest, and though she struggled to fight it, even breathing through her lips until she swore the foul odor tainted her tongue, she at last grasped the edge of her cloak and drew it to cover her mouth and nose. Haemon was too distracted scanning the main street to notice. With her head downcast, she was able to feel the mud sink beneath her sandals, curling around the edges to skim the outline of her arches and toes, and a sour, acidic rush of nausea coated the back of her throat. She tried to gather the bottom of her cloak and her dress beneath it to keep it from dragging in the muck, but it was impossible to manage the various layers. How could people live like this? In these conditions?

Haemon guided them on through the grime even as the first drops of rain began to fall and splatter in the mud and throw small beads of dirt onto their cloaks. She couldn't fathom a more repulsive situation and almost wished the guard had turned them away so that they would sleep beneath the canopy of trees rather than in these foul conditions. She shuddered to think what the living arrangements would be like. Perhaps they would be given a bed of damp straw to lay their exhausted heads on or offered a place beside the horses… Amid her increasingly dramatic and aggravated thoughts, she stumbled in the mud, and only Haemon's firm grip on her arm kept her from slipping and potentially falling. Her breath had taken refuge in her lungs at the possibility as though it too were disgusted to touch anything so sickening as the muck beneath her feet, and she had never been more grateful for a hand upon her than that moment. Glancing at him, his features were hidden behind his cloak, but she could imagine the expression he donned: hardened, emotionless, intimidating.

"_When I fell, there was no plush bed to catch me or flocks of servants to tend to me. I had to survive."_

She tucked her head away as she recalled his words and paled in shame at the turn of her thoughts. _You're lucky to have your life –to be breathing and treading through the mud and the rain!_ This is what it meant to survive, and if she were nothing else, not a rider, not a fighter, she was at the very least a survivor. Her past had taught her that much.

The rain was beginning to fall harder and dampening the hood of her cloak until she felt the cool chill of its touch seep into her hair and brush her scalp. Her shoulders and back were similarly affected, but rather than condemning Haemon or the gods or her poor luck, she held her tongue, kept her head down, and plodded through the increasingly liquid stew of mud beneath their feet.

Around them, various buildings struck up though she did not afford herself the opportunity to gaze at them for fear of any eyes that might look back upon her, and the city echoed with sounds that were oddly familiar to her: the calling of voices back and forth, the sound of rain dropping on rooftops, the encroaching silence as pedestrians took cover from the storm…

It was all disrupted by the sudden sound of men yelling curses at each other and the crack of splitting wood. The voices reached their peak as the men tumbled out of a door and onto the mud ground, and Aurora was too stunned to remember her need to conceal herself. Her head nosily bobbed upright to look at the two men wrestling, covered, oozing mud.

"You son of a bitch!" one man growled and swung for a punch, his fist sliding along the man's now slippery face. "You thought you could have Aella!"

"She never wanted you, you dumb bastard!" the other yelled back and took the man's neck between his hands though he struggled more to gain his grip than to squeeze the breath out the man.

"What is this?" one passing spectator wondered who had stepped beside Aurora without her realizing it.

"Arsenios and Orestes fighting over Aella again," another onlooker answered and shook his head. "Poor bastards'll never learn. She doesn't give a damn which of them comes to her. Their money's just as bronze!"

The two men laughed heartily at their shared joked, while Aurora fretted to understand their meaning, having never encountered such a situation. Men did not brawl within the palace walls…

She was all too soon jerked away from her thoughts when Haemon commanded, "Wait here with the horse."

"What?" she sputtered as his hand left her arm, and in its place, he offered her the reigns.

"Wait," he repeated and tugged at his hood meaningfully when their eyes caught. Realizing she had completely forgotten to maintain her guard, she promptly drew the hood lower across her forehead and accepted the reigns from him.

"Where are you going?" she asked, but Haemon was already ducking inside the door the two men had broken through moments earlier.

They were still embroiled in their fight, no matter how poorly and foolishly they did so, and Aurora shifted uneasily from foot to foot as she recognized the small crowd gathering around her to watch the two men wrestle clumsily in the mud. More laughter rung out as one man's hand slipped, and he ended up unintentionally taking the other man by his nostril and yanking. Did no one think to stop them? Evidently not for though the crowd grew denser, those lingering about only laughed or jested about the poor combat.

Aurora frowned in disgust at their two bodies completely saturated by the thick, foul, almost black mud. The two men were indistinguishable, and she could not fathom the amount of bathing it would take to clean themselves. But she caught herself wondering if the people of Lovisa took baths. The state of their city was not promising in any regard. She was fortunate for the guise of her cloak for none of those gathered seemed to realize she was a woman, unattended in their midst, but her grip was firm and tense on the reigns as if someone might try to steal the horse from her or tear her away. She wondered how Haemon could abandon her so abruptly and what he planned to do inside this establishment. Was this where he hoped to find lodging? Perhaps he only asked advice on available rooms… Surely that was the case.

Eventually, the two men wore themselves out and had taken to lying in the muck side by side with chests heaving and mud-stained faces turned toward the falling sky. Some of the men in the crowd encouraged them to continue, but it was clear they were too exhausted, too dirty, and too drunk to be of any use. Members of the crowd trickled away to Aurora's relief, and one of the men finally staggered to his feet and stumbled away, not sparing a muddy spit toward the man still on the ground.

"You son of a…" the man growled and flailed about the mud, all writhing limps unable to get their bearings. "Run, you coward! Run!" he yelled after him, and Aurora looked away, unable to watch the man's many mortifying and ridiculous attempts to stand atop his feet. Twice he ended up face-first in the mud before he succeeded, and he clumsily took off after his opponent. The rest of the crowd diminished with him.

Aurora was the only one who remained, standing outside this building, with an old farmer's horse, in the muck and the messy streets, and progressively being drenched by the rain. The courage the memory of Haemon's words had brought her was swiftly being drowned out by the rain, and her mood soured as the chill of the storm and the approaching evening invaded her lungs, wrapped around her chest, and sent a shudder down her spine. The horse tossed its wet mane, neighing in agitation and pulling at the reigns as though frustrated by being forced to stand in the rain too.

Aurora patted its neck and smoothed her hand along its damp coat, muttering, "Easy," as she had heard Haemon often do. Its soft nostrils trembled, exhaling a steamy breath, and she added, "We'll find shelter soon," even if the words were hollow to her ears. She patted its neck once more. Its skin was cold as she imagined hers to be, and she worried the horse or she or both would fall ill from the damp and the cold. How much longer would Haemon be?

All at once, he emerged from the building while pulling his cloak on once more, looking neither surprised nor upset by Aurora's sodden body, and he merely instructed, "Go inside and wait. I'll take him around to the stable."

Yet again, he took off, the horse in tow, without waiting for a response, and Aurora was too chilly and damp to care to look after him. So they would rest inside this establishment, and she hurried through the wooden door, hanging askew from its torn hinges, and found herself in a crowded, boisterous space. The sound of their garbled conversations and of a musician playing his lyre assaulted her first for her head was bowed to avoid the stream of rain falling from the roof, and as she straightened her neck, she saw the squat tables arranged inside the room, so near one another for the walls were cramped, that men nearly sat back to back in their seats and elbowed each other as they moved. Cups filled with drink covered each table, some graced with bread and bowls of stew as well, and only one woman punctuated their ranks struggling against the pitcher on her hips to fill their cups to the brim. Despite the chill air outside, the interior was humid and stuffy from the slew of bodies packed inside and the fire pit roaring in the center of the room. The woman's hair was pinned messily on the back of her head with strands falling here and there, and she had knotted the ends of her dress to the rope around her waist so that she did not trip on its length as she rather gracefully slipped between the tables and chairs. She didn't seem to notice or perhaps care how her calves were exposed in the process and even her knees and a piece of her thigh if she stepped far enough. She hoisted the pitcher into the air, arms shaking with its weight, and puffed to blow a strand of hair from her face. As she stepped around a table, her grip shook, and some of the wine tumbled past the edge and landed on a man.

He growled in annoyance but was trapped in his seat by the crowd and could not avoid the stream that assaulted him.

"Forgive me," the young woman muttered, her blue eyes large with fear as though she anticipated retribution.

The man shook the wine from his hair, some still trailing down his forehead into his brows and beard, and he grinned licentiously when his gaze found the woman. Without hesitation his hand reached around her, trapping her waist in his grip while his palm found a handful of her backside through the fabric.

"Come close," he prompted and caused her chest to crash against his shoulder though she did not fight him off, "and I might let you make it up to me…"

"No touching!" a burly man with shaggy brown hair hanging freely about his shoulders barked across the crowd. A scar curled around his chin and up to his lip where the flesh indented at the center, and his deep, rough voice was an attack in itself though he looked ready to alight the tables if necessary to reinforce his command. "That'll cost you extra!"

The man with his wine-stained hair hanging low on his brow reluctantly released his grip on the woman who seemed to relax as she realized the man could do nothing so long as she was protected, and her lips perked up in a smile, looking so smug and pleased it begged to be smacked from her face.

"Perhaps later," she murmured and flicked her eyes toward the man before continuing her journey through the tables, pitcher in hand.

The realization dawned on Aurora like a strike on her cheek, and she understood, _Oh, by the gods, how could you be so foolish! This is—_

A hand took her arm, and she unconsciously jerked against it after seeing the men with greedy hands around her. Her hood fell away from her hair as she yanked her head back to face her assailant, and she realized Haemon had returned with the rain dripping from his matted chestnut curls and his cloak sagging heavily around his shoulders. He had bore the brunt of the oncoming storm, but she found it little reparation for where he had taken her.

"Do you often stay in these… _establishments_?" she spat out with such abrupt shame and fury, that her sodden, cold cheeks flamed like her eyes. Rather than matching her anger, he smirked in the way only a man can –so indulgent and guilty and arrogant- as if he were laughing and challenging her at once.

"You've never slept in the rain, Princess," he answered, keeping his voice low enough others could not hear him, "and you would not want to."

"I would rather sleep in the stables than here!" she hissed.

"There are some in back of this place if you wish," he offered and quirked his brow provokingly.

Her hands curled to fists at her side. Though they would not be used, she so wished she could twist back, arm at her side, and land a just blow to his smirking mouth fitted so perfectly askew within his dark beard.

"Come," he prompted, almost chuckling as he said it, and tugged on her arm to pull her with him as he guided them toward a corridor in back of the room. This required awkwardly maneuvering around the cramped tables, and Aurora cringed each time she was forced to brush against some man's back or arm, yet Haemon didn't release his hold on her and she was almost certain he might drag her after him if her feet failed her like she was a stubborn mule to be overpowered rather than his betrothed, stumbling amid a crowd of drunken men inside a brothel.

_You would take me here!_ her ever furious mind snapped at the back of his head. His damp chestnut curls were gathered at the base of his strong neck, and she wondered briefly if she could fit her hands around that neck and how difficult it would be to squeeze the muscles between her fingers. Never in her life had she been more humiliated or enraged, and she was certain then that he must hate her to do this to her and to laugh as he did it, the arrogant sack of wine!

Her toe caught the edge of a chair, and she hissed at the pain though it was assumed into the growing pit of fury pulsing through her, and she pinned her furious gaze to the back of Haemon's head. They at last reached the corridor where she noted various rooms stemming from the hallway. The initial ones were small with only a meager cot in each, their purpose meant for one thing alone, and a thin piece of cloth hanging in the doorway to keep out wandering eyes. The sounds emitting from one as they passed were enough to make Aurora's eyes spin, her cheeks flare with mortifying curiosity and awareness, and her nails dig into her palms as her fists curled tighter. She could kill Haemon, truly.

Three rooms were situated at the end of the hallway with actual doors, perhaps meant for patrons with deeper pockets who were willing to linger about such a wretched place, and as they approached, those disgusting and haunting sounds following them as they went, a young girl slipped out of one door with arms overflowing with soiled sheets. She shied immediately when she saw Haemon first and scurried out of his path, her small hands grasping and wrestling with the fabric in her arms to keep it from falling to her feet, and she timidly glanced at Aurora, as curious and confused by her presence as the woman was by the little girl's. Seeing the absolute horror and repulse painted across Aurora's features, the little girl paled, tucked her head away, and hurried down the hall to deposit the sheets somewhere.

"They would have a child work here," Aurora almost growled in disgust, feeling a sensation swell within her to see something so pure corrupted by this place.

"No one touches her…" Haemon commented, but the way his voice faded toward the end gave her no comfort.

_No one touches her –yet! _the Princess understood and felt a more pervasive wave of nausea grip her. _Are they grooming her to be the perfect little whore? _she wondered and sensed that her skin was peeling away from her for the desire she had to leave this place and never return.

Haemon opened the last door, cautiously peeking through the threshold to be sure it was unoccupied, before he entered and held open the door for Aurora to follow. She did so without hesitation for there was nothing this room could hold that would be more repulsive than what Aurora had just seen. Like the other areas of this establishment, the room was meant for one purpose, and the sole bed was situated in the center of the room with only a small table and pitcher of water to keep it company. Otherwise the space was empty, and Aurora had nothing else to stare at but the bed with its thin mattress and heavy wool blanket atop it, noting there was no pillow upon which to lay her head.

Haemon was less affected by their sparse surroundings, and he removed the packs from his shoulders first and then his soggy cloak which he laid it out beside the pitcher of water on the table to dry. His black robes beneath were wet as well particularly along his shoulders and back, and the material clung to his skin, giving an indication of the lines of his body beneath. His feet were covered in mud as were Aurora's, but he didn't seem to notice for he ruffed a hand through his hair and shook out of the some the water onto the floor.

Aurora still stood unmoving in the doorway, almost mesmerized by her growing disgust and fury, and it was all centered on the one bed and its implications.

"You intend to sleep with me," she said, knowing it be true, but the slight inflection of her tone toward the end signaled some hope he might disparage this claim.

"What wife and husband sleep separately?" he questioned without intending an answer and untied the pouch with their money from his waist to sift through the coins and count what they had left.

"We're not yet married."

To this, he glanced at her with an unreadable expression, but the brief, unguarded look pinned the thin logic of her claim like an arrow to her chest. What were a Prince and Princess if not but titles, what were husband and wife if not but formalities, what were they if not a man and woman joined by some twist of fate and hopeless wanderers travelling through the lands?

She winced unconsciously, now sensing that the fear was seeping into her pores in the guise of the damp rain still covering her skin, and she clung to the flames of her anger for the warmth and strength to fight off the chill.

Their money counted, Haemon set the pouch atop his cloak and slid the gold ring he always wore onto his forefinger where the skin was slightly paler, showing he rarely removed it. She had noticed it upon first meeting him for it seemed so out of place against his austere appearance but had not asked of it like she had not asked anything of him. His stance warded off inquiry, and there was an air about him rough and cut in haste with sharp edges to threaten anyone from stepping too near. It complimented the perpetual heaviness to his stature that made his every step feel fought like he were constantly waging war against some unseen foe –like each day were a fresh battle to be won. She fear what lay beyond that front for she could not tell if he were guarding a secret from getting out or guarding outsiders from breaking in.

He approached her and untied the cloak from her neck, and she stood still with breaths abated as he removed the material from her shoulders. His chestnut eyes swept across her, assessing the damp blonde hair sticking to her forehead and neck. The long ends were matted and tangled from the journey, and she had nearly been forced to tear her golden diadem from her hair so that he could hide it among their things. Now the mane tumbled down her back untamed, and he brushed some of the strands idly away from her neck. She did not move in the slightest even if her neck shivered at the brief contact of his touch, and he had the inclination she tolerated more than appreciated his attention. Yet he felt a deep compulsion to tend to her in this way. The last time he had been cast out and forced to flee across the lands, he had been in the company of his family. He had watched over his little siblings as a father should, but he was only able to knot their sandals tightly so that they would not fall off, give them water so that they would not become weak, or shoulder their fears and anxieties when he could. Since then, his life was a penance for not being strong enough to protect them when they needed him most. But he was strong now, and he could protect the woman who would his wife, his family, and the mother of his children. Even if she looked at him now with those unusual green and brown eyes pulsing with unvoiced fury and hating him so vehemently he nearly felt singed by the power of her glare, he would keep her safe. He could give her a dry, warm bed to sleep in, wine to soothe her nightmares so that she might sleep, and food to fill her belly, and that fed this void of purpose and innate, almost born need to safeguard those near him since Hector left.

He looked down to her sodden, red dress that had once been beautiful and was now shredded from their journey, stained at the ends from the mud, and torn down the front so that it resembled more attractive rags hanging about her. Unconsciously, he brushed his thumb along one delicate collarbone and traced its line to the shoulder of her dress, and still she did not move. He thought how easily he could push it across her rounded shoulder and wondered whether she would stand there like a statue, numb to his touch and detesting him as if every breath he drew were an insult to her name. He took the fabric between his thumb and forefinger and tested the texture of the thin material now wet from the rain and decided instead he would need to find her something else to wear that was more appropriate for their journey.

"I'll call for some water and cloth to be brought so you can clean yourself," he said and stepped away from her to pick up his money once more and set her cloak atop his. "I'll be in the common area and bring you back something to eat."

"I'm not hungry," she countered, at once defiant and disobedient, and Haemon frowned.

She barely ate since they had been attacked days ago. She slept equally as little. Already she stood before him looking as frail and meager as a fallen leaf that he could blow across the room with one breath. She was paler than he had ever seen her, her skin so thin he was sure he could map out the blue and purple veins at her wrists. It was these times he fought the urge to reach forward and shake her until some sense rattled out of that thick, beautiful head because he did not know what else he could do. He even wondered if she were trying to slowly kill herself, but then she would show these bursts of stubborn persistence –like riding before him on the horse and trying, even though she failed, to sit up without his assistance. He couldn't understand this woman and was increasingly frustrated and bewildered by how to wake her spirit and instill her with the strength fight. He had pushed her to her limits thinking she might spin and attack him, and conversely, he carried her when she was too weak in the hopes she might borrow his strength somehow and find the will to keep on. Yet here she stood, both fragile and furious, his stolen bride, and he hadn't a clue what to do with her. He couldn't carve her into a woman she was not, but he sensed a perseverance inside of her because he held the same blind need to endure. No one who sees her family murdered as a child, survives in the forest for days, and lives alongside her family's murder for years would give up now. She couldn't realize how similar their paths were, and somehow it tortured Haemon knowing that they were both born out of the loss of everything they loved. She should be his equal.

He shook his head roughly to dismiss the thoughts for they had no answers and only caused him greater aggravation. Ignoring Aurora, for what else could he do with her, he brushed past her and out the door to the common area where men were still boisterously drinking. Haemon ordered the water and cloth to be sent to his room and sat at one of the empty tables in a back corner with a cup of wine and bowl of hot stew to keep him company, and he was grateful for the pulsing activity of the room which allowed him to fade unseen into the background.

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**Author's Note**: Hi my loves! There is much more to come, but I thought I would upload the first part so that you guys could read it while I work on the rest. I'm very excited for y'all to see what I have planned :)

Thanks to AmyLNelson as always for the super sweet review! Yes, I was quite speedy with my last updates, but it was a great distraction from the real work I had to do...unfortunately! haha Some more Haemon and Aurora in this chapter, and I hoped to shed a little bit more light on their complicated relationship. I was reticent to upload this without the second part because I really liked the conjunction of the two, but the next chapter will finish out this night in Lovisa and also pick up with Iliana and Damian and maybe a splash of something else if I have room! Anyway, Aurora is definitely not my usual female character, and I did that intentionally. She's a real princess, she's not physically strong, and she's very emotionally tormented... But that being said, I think she'll surprise you in the next chapter. I'm very excited! As for Iliana and Damian, I also have something very unexpected coming up that I'm equally excited about. You know me... I always have a million things going on :D Thanks for the sweet words, and I really hope you enjoyed this chapter as well and are curious about what's to come! xoxo


	12. Make Me Forget

Chapter 12  
"Make Me Forget"

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Recommended Songs: "Ghosts" – James Vincent McMorrow & "After the Storm" – Mumford & Sons

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"_What is it that love does to a woman? Without she only sleeps; with it alone, she lives."_ – Ovid

"I wonder what sort of man comes to a brothel, sits in a corner, and keeps to himself all evening," an audacious voice wondered from across him, and Haemon lifted his head from where it hung exhausted between his shoulders to consider the buxom brunette who had helped herself to the seat across from him. Realizing she gained his attention, she quirked one eyebrow invitingly, and a sinuous smile curved her lips. For hours it seemed, he had watched the same woman maneuver about the room, stopping from table to table to join the men in conversation and at times disappearing with one of them, only to return again a while later.

Haemon couldn't restrain an amused smile to see her sights had settled on him, and her own widened as if encouraged by him.

"Are you shy, love?" she wondered while leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table, expertly arching her back as a result and propping up the shapely curve of her breasts for his eyes to feast upon.

This gained her a chuckle though he still kept his thoughts to himself, entertained for the moment by her act and perhaps even willing to let her feed his ego as she attempted to wile herself closer to him, and he drew another sip from his cup.

"Or perhaps only quiet," she murmured, tilting her head with intrigue, and she played her part well, looking neither too desperate nor too aloof.

He kept his silence but dared her with the slight narrowing of his eyes.

"Fortunately," she continued, her voice a bit low and throaty as though they were conversing confidentially, "you don't need to speak. I am well-versed in reading a man."

"Are you?" he asked at last, interested and amused enough to encourage her.

"Very," she promised and straightened slowly while rearranging the lines of her body as only a woman aware and comfortable of her sex could. Though her brown eyes glittered mischievously in the candlelight, her face sobered as if to set about an important task, and she sat upright and squared herself toward him. "May I?"

His cup was lifted to lips once more, and so he merely nodded his assent, chestnut eyes smoldering above the bronze edge as they watched her performance.

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing purposefully and thoughtfully on the full flesh, and made a show of how her brown eyes scanned him from toe to nose taking in every available inch that she could and very slowly drawing her eyes along his arms and shoulders, his neck and finally his face.

His eyes were waiting, possibly darkened to show she had aroused his curiosity, and he prompted, "Anything?"

"Oh yes," she assured him as a kitten smile hiked up her lips. "You're not from Apulia," she began tentatively, waited for him to contribute, and pursed her lips slightly to see him silent and stolid. "But you don't relish in carrying your gold about you, so you're not a merchant. A traveler, perhaps, though for what purpose I'm not sure."

Haemon said nothing, only his dark eyes shone in interest, and she grinned with abrupt haughtiness to know she was right.

"The ring you wear," she continued, "was your father's or some other older man who was like a father to you. I doubt you ever take it off."

He lifted his fist to cover his mouth, resting his elbow on the table, and ran his thumb thoughtfully along the grain of his beard.

"I imagine you come from wealth as only a man from wealth could be so comfortable and arrogant with one gold ring to his person," she let tongue toy with the final two words, curling around each of them to annunciate clearly and curtly.

His eyes sharpened, so subtle, yet she felt them chasten her daring tongue and grinned devilishly.

"You're neither shy nor quiet, but you're used to having women approach you and so you enjoy the game."

"I'm playing a game?" he wondered and drew his thumb idly along his beard once more.

Her eyes followed the movement like a hungry little animal nipping at anything to sustain it, and they swelled with promises when they traced his straight nose to find his gaze again. "Forgive me… Have I given you too much credit?"

Here a smirk bloomed behind his fist, and he rewarded her with a chuckle at her brazen and her wit. He dropped his hand and confessed, "You could convince any of these men to empty their pockets for you."

"You as well," she assured him and smiled sweetly though it had the effect of a lioness licking her chops.

"No, not me."

Her smile dropped almost taking on a childish pout of disapproval, and she warned, "I like the occasional challenge."

"You are a good tease," he revealed, "but you're a poor judge of character."

Her pout evaporated so that her mouth could stiffen and her brow could crease in a frown of confusion.

"The sort of man who comes into a brothel, sits alone, and keeps to himself is a married one," he explained and then tilted his head back to finish off the last of his wine.

How many cups he had consumed, he couldn't venture a guess, but the alcohol soothed his tired body, emptied his head of its heavy thoughts, and made him yearn for bed. The prostitute's teasing had effectively complicated that sensation, causing him to desire it for reasons beyond sleeping. He had nearly forgotten the last time he enjoyed a woman, since war with Umbria and then this engagement had preoccupied his thoughts, and the stirring of his arousal was that much more persuasive and commanding as it uncoiled deep in his gut from its slumber.

"Hm," she hummed and only looked further fascinated, "and why would a married man come to a brothel if not for company?"

"Because he is a traveler and needs shelter from the storm."

"And not someone to warm his bed on these cold nights?"

She was a determined one, he would admit, and he found that the more inspiring seeing her try to charm and then outwit her way into his bed. It was a rare find, a woman as persistent and brazen as this, and for a moment he was tempted by those hungry, chocolate eyes daring his darker desires.

"I have my wife waiting in my bed," he decided brusquely, continuing his lie, and looked away to count out his payment for his meal and wine, "and I don't have to pay her."

"Nothing is free," she challenged. "Even with a wife… You can't fuck her and leave her, and every night is the same, boring repetition."

He shook his head slightly, both piqued and riled to hear such a mouth on a woman, but what was he to expect from a whore? As he stood, he thumbed a coin toward her.

She caught it easily in her palms and curled her hands to her chest, her smile reinvigorated by his clemency.

"For your company," he said. "Go prey on another drunk bastard."

"If you change your mind," she replied with an impish grin, "my name is Aella."

He couldn't withhold his chuckle as he realized the connection and understood more now how one woman could catch two men in her spell and tangle them beyond reason. It was better he retreated and allowed her to cast her magic on dumber men. As it was, their conversation had awoken a fresh hunger in the pulsing warmth of his belly, that sinuous carnal ache, and it guided him down the corridor and to his borrowed room where he silently opened the door and stepped inside.

A lone candle flickered and burned on the table alongside their cloaks and the pitcher of drinking water, and its light poorly illuminated the space, so that his sights strained to adjust to the dim space. After scanning the interior, he found her silhouette lying upon the bed though her position warned it had been an accident of her weariness more than a conscious desire to sleep. Her body was twisted, her shoulders and back lying open toward the ceiling of the room, while her hips faced the wall with her knees, calves, and ankles hanging off the edge of the bed. It almost seemed as if sleep had overcome her with such force that she collapsed onto her side without the chance to situate her legs atop the mattress as well or delve beneath the wool blanket.

"Stubborn woman," Haemon growled beneath his breath, aggravated and amused, "I told you to sleep."

Many times he had warned her how she would fold under the severe exhaustion, but it was pitiful almost to see her like this all the same. Exhaling, he bent to find her feet, now clean and free of their sandals, and gently place them on the bed, and he sat on the edge beside her ankles and considered her sleeping as deeply and soundly as a babe, so that she neither stirred when he adjusted her position nor when he sat beside her.

"If I had known…" He stopped himself and shook his head. No, he wouldn't have eased their pace, and if he had, they would be out in the storm rather than sleeping in a warm bed. Still, he was frustrated with her silence. Always this silence between them when she could have expressed the level of her weariness. Did he intimidate her so much that she couldn't tell him when she hurt or when she was too tired to carry on? He couldn't live his life beside a mute!

An indistinct groan interrupted his thoughts. He frowned through the darkness to better make out her features, thinking for a moment she was waking to him, but her eyes were closed and clenched tightly beneath her growing frown. The thin skin trembled as her eyes moved restlessly beneath them, seeing something within the deep recesses of her mind, and her arms flinched abruptly as a soft whimper fell from her lips. She faintly shook her head, her arms jerking unnaturally again, and he smoothed his palm along her cheek, felt the tender skin shudder in his grip. These nightmares… How could a woman hold so much fear that even sleep would not appease it?

"Shhhh," he whispered to quiet her.

Her pale features flexed and quaked, and her face pushed against his hand to break the grip trapping her in place.

_Stubborn woman_, his mind echoed once more, and he held her tighter, fanning out his fingers to grasp her neck and her cheek at once.

She groaned, agitated, her hips rolling clumsily back onto the bed, but as soon as her weight settled, she was still and quiet as he had found her. His hand lingered there while his gaze drank in the pale, dimly lit curve of her cheek, and he sensed it better when his fingertips drew along it, over her jaw, and down her neck. They traced the collarbone as he had done earlier that evening, but this time she was relaxed and at ease beneath his touch. He allowed his hand to fall lower and follow the fabric along the swell of her breast, enjoying the smooth, soft skin and warm curve. His fingers dared down the gash in her dress that he had caused until he felt her stomach and nearly reached her navel. The fabric of her dress interrupted his journey, and he flattened his palm now across her to better feel the bow of her hips and long lines of her legs. When he reached her ankles, she still had not stirred, but that unfed desire was sifting like a hungry beast inside of him, his heart beating more forcefully inside his chest as he felt the blood gathering at his waist and sinking toward his hips.

He took the hem of her dress and guided it across her ankles, up her calves, over her knees… Her pale skin came into sight, the milky texture that glowed in the night, barely visible and yet tangible, and he bent to find the small, circular bone on the inside of her ankle with his lips. It was so delicate that even his lips seemed too rough for it, and he tried again to find a better place for his mouth, agitated and aroused with how soft her skin was beneath it. He kissed the inside of her knee, savoring how the heat of his breath swept across her skin and back into his mouth, and he planted his hands on the mattress to balance his weight so that the only touch to graze her where that of his lips in the steady assent up her body. He nestled his lips into her inner thighs where he could feel the heat radiating from between her legs though her dress still shrouded her from his sight, and at last, her leg awoke under his kindling, her knee straightening subtly. He kissed higher up her thigh, bringing him closer to the essence of her beauty and her womanhood where he yearned to taste her lips, and a soft, groggy groan emitted from her throat as if to encourage him.

_Later_, he promised her and reluctantly tore himself away.

The rest of her body called for him, untouched and waiting exploration, and he kept his pace, then finding the small sliver of skin at the lowest part of the gash in her dress and working soft, languid kisses up her stomach and between her breasts. She groaned again, louder, and rolled her head atop the mattress to the other side, her features flexed subtly in her sleep. Even as her mind slept on fitfully, her body warmed to his touch and his kiss, and that knowledge was a heel in his side to drive him on. He kissed each of her collarbones in turn, enjoying how they framed her chest, and then he reached the crook of her neck and followed her slender throat to her jaw. He mapped out each piece of her he could, and yet he wasn't satisfied with his incomplete assessment. His teeth found the tender skin beneath her ear, nibbling lightly as he felt her body writhing beneath him, and his arms shook with the effort to hold his chest still above her. His teeth sunk in deeper, and all at once, a low moan tumbled from her lips so raw and earnest it electrified the hairs on the back of his neck and traveled down his spine to settle in his loins. Her head twisted once more this time her cheek resting against his face so that he could hear the unsteady, hushed breath he was causing, and his body ached to his bones with the sudden need to touch and feel her. He abandoned his game as he added his weight to still her beneath him, thinking she might be calmed and restrained and forced to lie motionless again. Her hips rocked without purpose, as insistent and blind as her face, and he winced when she collided into his arousal, making him bear down until she was pinned to mattress under him. She fought on even becoming more desperate as he restrained her, and he felt too perfectly the restless flexing of her hips and her waist, the twisting and arching of her chest. His eyes closed to douse him in the cool, calm of darkness, but it only drew the whole of his attention to her writhing figure, those soft curves rotating and squirming around him. His heart drummed inside his chest to answer her siren song. She was seeping through his skin, intoxicating him with her scent, so much stronger than any drink. Each toss and turn of her pliant figure had his body pulsing, and his head ached to contain it. She taunted the surface; his skin burned at her teasing; he needed to bury his hips in her, to feel, possess, and consume her.

He opened his eyes to her as witless and tangled in her sleep as he had found her, and frustration flamed inside him. It was wrong for him to be provoked by a sleeping woman, but she was beautiful. She was his. His hips parted her knees and sunk into the embrace of her thighs where her dress yielded to him and gathered around her abdomen. He could feel that heat searing him even through the material at his waist, and it was torture more than pleasure to feel her so close and not completely. Her mouth parted with a breathy exhale, her neck stretching abruptly even as she frowned, and his thumb caught her lower lip, massaging that peachy, soft flesh. He remembered the night he had taken hold of her and thought he would teach her a lesson, but how she had crept beneath the cracks in his armor, deceiving him with that timid kiss.

"Please," her drowsy tongue slurred, and she writhed and turned her head when his palms cupped her cheeks again. Beneath the oppression of her sleep, she couldn't seem to separate the dream and reality, and he released her lip to stroke her cheek. Without his thumb, the tender flesh trembled before his eyes and whispered, "Don't leave."

The two words hammered through thin wall of his will, and he crashed over her as unyielding and all-consuming as a wave on the sea. Her lips were velvet to his mouth, so soft and sweet and tender, that they sent him crumbling to her, his body crushing her beneath him, and he bit, sucked, kissed from one corner of her mouth to other, attending to each swollen piece. Then he seized them more desperately and kissed her so hard he expected those plump lips to break, but he couldn't mediate his assault. The rush of need was too unexpected and too strong, almost crushing his bones with the way it snaked around his every inch, and he drove his hips forward until he felt his length embed in her and pushed himself deeper as if he could tear through the material and find her.

Without warning, a shrill shriek was muffled inside his mouth, and small fists beat at his chest and his arms, then opening for the palms to push at his weight, her arms trembling with the effort to force him away. Her hips writhed against him, her legs kicked blindly, and for a moment, his brow knotted, feeling her buck her hips into him, teasing him… Her forehead knocked his brow dazing him slightly, and he shook his head free from those persuasive thoughts and drew his attention away from his groin to her panicked face where her eyes were pinned closed as though too fearful of what they would see. Even from their prison tears slipped out the edge, glistening in the dim candle's light against her pale temples, and the sight pierced through the dense cloud of lust and alcohol, deep into his head.

"No," he said as he took her wrists in his hands to hold her from attacking him and pinned them by her head. "Open your eyes. It's me."

She fought him still, those tears falling down her temples, like his words landed on deaf ears. He tried to still her body with his, pressing more of his weight on her to pin her to the bed, but this only seemed to panic her more.

"Aurora!" he commanded sternly. "Open your eyes. Look at me."

Her lips were shivering, though he only noticed when her body suddenly stilled beneath him. Tentatively, one eye parted to glance at him followed by the other, and for a time, she blinked again and again, trying to penetrate the heavy fog of her sleep and find him. At last, her mismatched eyes latched onto his features and focused to make out his face from the dim lighting of the room.

"It's me," he repeated again, but rather than recognition, her face tangled in confusion.

Her eyes frantically darted away from him to his body atop her then to his hands gripping her wrists tightly by her ears and tried to understand his purpose. She felt it more than she saw: his hips crushing her beneath their weight where his body was wedged between her thighs. A fresh alarm stained her face, and he waited for her to begin fighting once more, but her damp gaze found him, looking suspicious, anxious, and… something darker. It was a trick of the candlelight flickering in her eyes, and he struggled to see her clearly and chased after that glimpse. Her hands curled to fists, subtly flexing the thin muscles and tendons of her wrists captured by his palms, and he released them only to ground one of his hands at her waist, sinking his fingers through the material and into her skin. Her features twitched, but even with her hands free, she didn't move. Her mind and head and eyes felt too heavy with fatigue, the persuasive pull that was drawing her deeper toward sleep even as she struggled to fight it off, and she couldn't understand if she had woken in a dream. She couldn't remember falling asleep, but how else could he be here –like this? How could her mind feel so sedated and her body so alive, pulsing through to her fingertips, and only the pressure of him on her to still it? She wished to have him crush every piece of her, and still it could not calm the rush of heat between her thighs blazing, warming a flush in her cheeks and interrupted only by the unyielding weight of him… It was too much. Frowning, aggravated, exhausted, roused, she closed her eyes thinking she could banish this dream from torturing her.

Instead, his hand crept up her side, past her waist and ribs, and to the curve of her breast. His fingers felt rough to the tender skin as they curled around the edge of her dress and drew the fabric back, freeing her only to mold his palm around the swell. His touch was a shock of pleasure and fear through her. Her eyes burst open to find his face but met the dark emptiness of the room above her, and the tender touch of his lips brushed her throat beneath her ear, his rough beard scratching at the skin and magnifying the feel of his mouth. Hot, moist breath tumbled lower across her neck, his thumb circled over her pillowy flesh to brush the hardened skin crowning it, and all at once, her body buckled beneath the combination of sensations like the room capsized from her. Sleep evaporated with such force that the realness was a sharp pain. Her head rolled to the side, unconsciously offering him the full length of her neck, and her heartbeat was a dizzy clamor of panic and need too tangled to unwind. The shock of his lips on her sternum startled her whole body, and she swore she felt those teasing lips pull into a smile against her skin before they left her again. Her fingers knotted in the coarse wool sheet beneath her as though preparing herself for the soft brush of his mouth on her, but she couldn't anticipate his touch for the renewed clenching of her eyes which kept her blind and in the darkness. Yet it was more stimulating somehow, not knowing how or where he would touch her. She yearned for it, even as his thumb distracted her by rolling the hardened skin of her breast beneath it, and she gripped tighter to the blanket until her weary shoulders and arms flexed to complete stillness. His thumb retreated so that he cupped her fully, and he ruptured her resolve with one, searing, moist embrace of his lips around her. Her breath hitched in the abrupt tensing of her throat, the instinctual need to hold herself and keep that wild rush of pleasure and desire from running through her. His stubble scratched her breast with the opening of his lips only to close a moment later, taking her between his teeth and biting, and a torn, desperate moan tumbled out of her lips faster than she could relax her neck, making it rough as sandpaper on her throat and ending far too loudly in the silence of their room. Her cheeks swam in a flush of blood, and she faintly shook her head, turning it to the other side where she pressed her face into the rough fabric and inhaled its musky scent. He tugged then, pulling against the gravity and biting down harder on her, and unconsciously her back submitted to an arch so that he would not pull so insistently. He tore back the other side of her dress to fully reveal her naked chest, and he threaded an arm through the space below her back to hold her as thrust his face forward, burying into her breast and capturing her between his face and arm. His teeth released her from their prison, and the blood throbbed the more severely there like a sharp ache which made the caress of his lips and tongue the harder to bear.

"Please," she mumbled, jaw tensing, and he couldn't tell whether she was begging him to stop or to continue.

He rose abruptly and tugged with the arm around her so that she collided with her bare breasts into him, feeling the tender skin kneading into the fabric of his shirt and through to the barrel chest behind it. Her eyes flung open to focus on his strong neck rather than facing his eyes, and her hands planted onto the mattress behind her, too afraid to touch him and too shy and inexperienced to know how, while his pushed her dress across her shoulders and down her arms. One hand after the other supplicated until her arms were removed completely from the gown and the upper portion hung slack around her hips, her chest exposed down to her navel for his hungry gaze. His hand gripped her hip, guiding her bottom off the mattress, so that he could pull the crumpled dress across its curve and down to her upper thighs. They pressed together as much as they could for the narrow amount of space, and he removed his hips from between them, making room for him to draw the fabric down her thighs and off her legs. Exposed, her milky skin seemed to radiate through the darkness, etching out the smooth rolling waves of her figure, a woman with all soft arches and no hard angles to interrupt her shape. She remained curled in toward herself, head bowed, as though ashamed and embarrassed to be seen this way before him. She was too thickheaded to realize the rush of desire burning through his insides as he craved to explore her like his eyes were.

He tossed aside her gown and charged her, causing her to break her stance and tumble back onto the mattress to keep him from colliding into her chest, and she unconsciously clutched to his wait to steady her fall. His teeth laid siege on that painfully sensitive little crook behind her ear, and her fingers crumpled in his shirt, tearing it from the material at his waist with a brazen burst of courage and exposing a strip of bronze skin that she couldn't appreciate for her eyes had taken refuge behind her lids again. Her knees ached with the tension holding them tightly together, for her modesty emerged with her nakedness, and her body was trembling to know what fate awaited it even as she dragged his shirt higher off his waist toward his ribs. One hand found her knees, and she clamped her eyes shut even tighter, twisting her head once more as if to hide her face from him. Her legs shivered in his grip when he parted them with his hand and wedged them open to fit his hips once more. He eased over her, pressing himself between her thighs where the feel of him sent a fresh current of need and panic up her spine, and his naked abdomen lay atop her and burnt her with the same force of his lips falling lower down her neck. Her fingers dared to touch his ribs, shaking as they went, but an overwhelming ache to touch him struck her –to feel the contact of his skin on her. She drew her fingers cautiously and blindly across his back, slowing from time to time as she noticed uneven protrusions and depressions in his skin. Confused, she allowed the tip of her finger to trace one and recognized the thin, long sweep of an incision. Scars. He was riddled with them, and her hands took refuge on his shirt once more to avoid them and the reminder of the killer whose rough, callused hand had found her hip and now massaged down her upper thigh.

He buried his fingers in mercilessly deep, and she groaned abruptly with the pain of her muscles reawakened by his hand. Her knees bore into his waist, aching to hold him in the same way she had held to the horse, for she was too timid to relax beneath him, but his hand on her thigh forced one leg to submit, shuddering and shaking under his ruthless touch.

"You're hurting me," she gasped and tried futilely to pull her leg away from him, drawing it in toward herself, but it opened her in an entirely new way and gave him room to bury his hips in deeper against her pulsing core. Her eyes nearly rolled into her head with the sensation of that rigid length between her legs, stealing all the moisture from her mouth, so that her dry lips parted in thirst for something she couldn't understand to quench it.

He groaned into her ear, voice so low and raspy, her skin prickled to life all over just to hear it, and her heart rose into a crescendo as if it were a warning howl. His hand left her only to grasp onto his shirt and tear it over his head and next to reach between them and unknot the material around him. It fell away so that there was nothing to withhold him, but she could not open her eyes to understand the sound of his movements, less anticipate them. He found her knee where her legs had begun to close again without his hips to hold them and eased it back up toward her where she had mistakenly placed it before, and the brush of his naked waist inside her legs broke her conviction. Her eyes burst open, so wide they hurt, but she could not prepare herself for the sight of him as exposed as she was yet his tanned skin against her made her seem even paler, like the moon to his howl. The shadows crept into the contours of his body, etching out too clearly the sinewy lines of muscle and bone like she had never seen before. She had always thought him a wall of a man and couldn't realize how those massive shoulders narrowed to a slim waist and hips and long, athletic legs. She nervously wet her lips as her eyes drank him in, distracted and hungry, and he gripped her hip in one hand, the other still cupping beneath her knee. His weight funneled into his hands, holding her and making her feel that her bones might crush in his grip, and his blistering gaze briefly met hers before he took her in one, sharp, hard thrust.

It felt like he collided with all the blood and breath inside her and drove it from her mouth as a choked cry of shock. He tore through her virginity as if he were charging his enemies at battle –no mercy, no prisoners, no remorse. The pain bloomed a dizzying shade of red behind her eyes, so deep in her, throbbing around the unyielding length of him. She could make no further sound. She tried to rock her hips, to shift them, to ease the fresh searing pain, but his hands were pitiless and pinned her in place to take and feel it all. Her palm met his shoulder, trying to push him back so that she could have the space to breathe, but he was still, holding her down, making her face the ache. Her head rocked blindly from side to side like her chest squirming as much as it could under his firm grip. Her lips were trembling, the throbbing reached her eyes, and fresh tears fell down her temples to tangle in her hair. She focused on the dark ceiling rather than look at him. She was afraid to see him, thinking he would appear unsympathetic like she were just another victory to be won, but he watched every little flicker of movement from her, trying to give her a moment to adjust to him, not knowing what else he could do for he had never been with a virgin –not a true one –not like this. She fit him so tightly, he felt it in his lungs, this pressure keeping his breaths shallow, and his muscles clasped to his bones like she were consuming and crushing every piece of him. She felt better than anything he had ever experienced, and the need to remember that first explosion of nerves was too persuasive. He could hold no longer, even for her sake, and allowed himself to withdraw slowly though she shuddered in his hands.

_Hold still_, he commanded her feeling every tremble of movement from her stirring his need like a fan to a flame and making it that much more difficult to keep his retreat steady. He paused at her entrance to draw a steadying breath, but there was only the hunger and the ache for her. It was all lost the moment he thrust forward again, as harsh as the first time, and she cried out in the same barren, raw voice. He grit his teeth at how she made him succumb. His muscles shook with the effort to be gentle, but he had never learned how. It was impossible with her, not when it had been so long, not when she collapsed around him hot and heavy as the sea at noon, not when it was her beneath him. He tried and failed again, but she made no sound when his hips resonated inside her thighs. Her lips and eyes were clenched closed again, making her look as though she wished to be blind and deaf to him, and it singed him to see her block him out. Always this silence. Always this apathy. He found her harder than before, and she groaned loudly, rolling her head under so that the arch of pain extended to her chest. Her fingers knotted tightly in the sheet, and when he thrust again, swift, hard, sharp, she collapsed onto the bed defeatedly though her eyes flickered open through her tangled and matted lashes.

He pulled away, and she frowned as the pain swarmed in his absence, making her yearn for him to take it away. His hips sunk into her thighs, filling her completely, cutting through that pulsing fire, and calling on something so much deeper and unknown. There was no room for fear. Just him. Her temples were sticky from tears, pieces of her hair clung to her, but her eyes were clear and staring at him. She could see the ripple of muscles flexing to bring him into her, letting her see and feel at once, and the pain ended with a note of pleasure sinking into her gut. She bit her lip hungrily to muffle the low moan in her throat and watched him pull from her again. He abandoned her to the throbbing emptiness. She had never felt empty before him. She had never let anyone near enough to touch, kiss, or make love to her. He terrified her more than she could express: she watched the sheer brawn of him kill a man and now those same perfectly carved muscles were bringing him into her –again and again and again. The tides twisted in her, exchanging pain for pleasure, but the pleasure was so deep, so carnal it hurt as much to sustain it. A low, loud moan charged through her defenses and out her mouth, nearly echoing inside the empty room, and she curled her chin toward her shoulder, frowning heavily, trying to hold her body still in the same way she had tried to hold back the pain. But this was different. Her body submitted to him, and yet with every powerful thrust into her, she was fighting his hands to free her and let her move with him. She wanted him to make her forget her pain, her fear, her past...

She sprung forward with mindless desperate need, catching his neck and shoulders in her hands, but his grip on her knee pinned her from reaching up to meet him. She dug her nails into his flesh to hold tight to him, her arms shook pitifully to pull her to him, and he yielded, abandoning her knee to wrap his arm around her back and catch her. She clung so fiercely then, rushing forward with the elegance of a blind woman, and her hands wrapped, clawed, demanded of him with such force she forgot him buried inside her and wrenched herself up, causing a fresh blade of pain between her legs. Her eyes pricked with how deep it stabbed, but she held to him, groaning at once in frustration and suffering. His hooded, dark eyes were torn with bewilderment to see her so distraught, reaching incessantly for him, and all at once he lost his balance, his arm collapsing and sending them both tumbling back onto the bed. Her arms caught him at last in their embrace, one looped tightly about his neck, the other curled under his arm and gripping to his shoulder, and she claimed his lips in the way she wanted him to claim her, savage, passionate, and unforgiving. One of his callused palms found her cheek as if to hold her steady like she were charging too quick into battle, but she wouldn't be moderated when she needed him so severely in this moment. Her lips were the fault in his armor, driving past his defenses and to assault him mercilessly, and never had she attacked him. It was exhilarating and torturous realizing she wanted him as badly as he wanted her, and for a moment, he was wound in her spell, in feeling her searing heat trap him inside her, her moist lips kissing him like a final wish. Both commanding and ordering his body, and the soldier didn't know which to obey first.

Her hips rocked without his hands to imprison them, and every subtle pitch of her waist, flexing and releasing to guide hips, was amplified inside her until she groaned subtly at her own teasing, how it fed the fire but would not consume it. He drew away, making her hips tilt back to hold him longer, and found her again in his unyielding way rushing to the brink of her limits where the angle of her hips accepted him. Too far for her to bear, and she cried out into his lips, moaning next when he struck her again, and held tight to his neck for the pressure kindled between their brows. They shared the same heated breaths, their sweaty skin sliding as he collided into her, and their lips had stilled as their desires focused below their hips. Still she clung stubbornly to him, finding some solace in grounding her body to him when his movements grew rougher and took more of her. He couldn't breathe with their faces so close and tore her arm away, pinning her wrist above her head, and she had less bearing to prepare herself, causing the force of his thrust to drive her up on the mattress and then recoiling back to meet him. She moaned at their collision, digging her nails into his shoulder as if she could grip herself better, but she was too exhausted and too weak and too hungry for him. Even the pain was pleasure because her body was on fire and her mind was numb. His hand relaxed from her wrist, slipping up toward her palm, and she tangled her fingers between his though his palm was spread, fingers burying into the mattress beneath them.

He shuddered over her, and she was amazed to discover his limits. But he wouldn't stop. His body laid siege to her, growing more reckless and yearning for that sublime satisfaction to calm the restless, angry pit of need in him. Growling through his teeth, he buried himself into her until there was nothing more to take, hearing the impact of their flesh colliding, and she threw her head back to cry out. His chest pinned her beneath him, holding her steady to meet his merciless charge, and the tension was kindling between them. The sweat on their bodies wouldn't let him hold her, and each time he penetrated her, hitting her thighs, she rocked on the mattress beneath him, her soft breasts drawing up and down his chest. She whimpered at the severe tenderness of her chest, rubbing against him, almost painful with how sensitive their were from his diligent treatment, and she only held tighter to his shoulder trying to force more of his weight on her to still their movement. She was not strong enough to make him yield, and he needed to space to breathe, sucking in one thick gasp of cool air through his lips after the other, yet the blaze remained, growing wilder as he felt more of her sweet, moist heat taking him in deeper and harder. He groaned, low, haggard, the same tone that had sent chills burrowing across her skin, and she felt its bass resonate in her belly where the muscles were knotting one over the other as if desperate to keep something at bay. Yet every impact of him so unyielding, so rigid, so ruthless made her want to release it. She wanted to succumb. She wanted to lose control.

As he drew away, her hips angled again to withhold him, and when he rushed forward, they rocked back to accept him, all of him, feeling him blade through her and strike deep within. _So close_. He was the key, and she needed him. Her hips moved with him, clumsy and unsure at first, her sweaty skin stuck to the coarse wool blanket beneath them, but she learned his rhythm. Her knees opened wide until they touched the blanket as well, and she moaned to feel him like this. So much she thought to push him away, but she wanted the pain. She wanted the numbness.

"Make me forget," she commanded in a breathless exhale yet it sounded so desperate as if she were begging.

His chestnut eyes searched her face without seeing, but he understood –like he understood her nightmares of being left. His nightmares of Hector leaving… He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, allowing all of his focus on those wet folds accepting him, and he dug his elbows into the mattress, flexed with every muscle of his waist, and drove into her, hearing her cry out again. Swallowing thickly, he repeated the same rough, unforgiving assault, abandoning those failed attempts to be gentle. He captured her lips, knowing how their tender flesh taunted him, and he tasted her, molded his mouth to her, felt the hot gust of her breath when he thrust sharply into her, and massaged his tongue into her own where her guttural moan was consumed by him. Her nails buried into his shoulder and in between his knuckles, and his fingers curled around her small palm as well, holding as tightly as she held him for the same sensation snaked around his ribs and waist. His breaths were short through his nose, his muscles shuddered with exhaustion, his body was covered in sweat, but that end was in sight. His hips chased it between her legs, burying so deeply into her walls and feeling them tighten around him as she clutched from far within. He groaned faintly, kneading his fingers into her palm, and he found her again and again, increasing his pace and losing control. Her lips trembled against him, her mouth had stilled even as he continued to kiss her swollen lips, but she couldn't move. Every muscle in her body was aching and contracted and wrapping around her bones like she were a prisoner to her own desire, and she wanted to break through. She moaned, insistent, commanding, begging, and he rose to her expectations. He struck into her like he might tear through her, and she supplicated as if that passionate violence were what she wanted. Days of frustration, exhaustion, withheld words manifested in their harsh encounter. Like a final battle, they charged at each other both eager for the end, but the sheer desire had stripped away their armor and weapons, leaving them naked and barren to be crushed and consumed. She writhed under him, her hips could not stop their motions, but she couldn't stand it. The pressure was too much. The weight of everything was tangled and holding her down. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. Her nails drew blood from his shoulder, and he growled through his teeth, her savage soldier come to take all. His hips collided into her, his length cutting through the tension like a knife to her binds, and it crashed over her as if a river had swept up to consume her. So powerful, she cried out, craning her neck back for the space to stretch her scream, and it was pleasure and pain that tore through her and left a shuddering, weak woman in its wake.

A vivid warmth spread through her feeling too hot in her abdomen, and she realized he had collapsed beside her on the narrow bed, barrel chest heaving. Her inner thighs throbbed with the emptiness and little after shocks trembled across her body. The chill of the room permeated their sweaty, dense haze, and she felt it creeping along her skin. Shuddering, she drew her knees together but whimpered subtly at the blade of pain between them. His hand found her arm and drew her against him where her exhausted body limply rolled to his side. Her face barely rested on his chest, but she was too weary to care. His skin was warm though damp as her own, and the brief strength brought on by her desire had fled with her release. Pure satisfaction and calm crept into its place so that her eyelids hung languidly across her eyes and distorted the angles of his chest from her vision. She groaned agitatedly when he lifted her from the bed slightly to tear the wool blanket from under them and draw it across their naked bodies, and she was quick to settle against his side once more for her muscles could scarcely hold her up. He reached down to right one of her breasts caught against his side, and she flushed as much as her weak body could manage, a slight warmth of pink in her pale cheeks. He smiled, nearly as exhausted as she, and amused by her reserve around him –after what they had done.

"I didn't believe that a woman at your age could be a virgin," he muttered while lightly tracing his callused tips across the curve of her breast, and she kept her gaze away from his, unsure if she should feel insulted or otherwise.

"I've never been married or betrothed," she said uneasily and wished his fingers would cease torturing her weak skin, but she couldn't find the will to push him away.

"That does not stop most men and women."

Her flush renewed, even seeming to exhaust her further for the effort it caused her body to sustain it, and she kneaded her forehead against his chest as if to bury it away. The comment, however, nipped at her begging to be acknowledged, and she softly confessed, "I never let anyone near enough to…"

His hand abandoned her breast for the moment to trace her waist, massaging his fingers deep into her flesh as she realized he was prone to, and the same deep, burning ache was roused.

She was too weary and aggravated to sustain it, and she hissed, "That hurts."

"You don't listen to me," he grumbled, and his hand moved lower toward her hip and to her thigh once more. Her legs were the worst for wear from days riding bareback up the mountainside, and her body jerked to feel him bury his thumbs in her. "If you slept and ate, you would not hurt so much."

"I was sleeping," she snapped breathlessly for his rough touch stole the air from her lungs, and she tried to wile together the strength to move away from his hands. Her limbs would not respond. Everything ached mercilessly, and yet she had never felt calmer. Pure silence in her mind, and she wanted to sleep…

He chuckled lightly to hear her speak to him so sharply, like she had the first time they met, and he eased his grip on her thigh. "In a few days, this pain will subside. You'll be stronger."

She closed her eyes and nuzzled hear face into his skin as if to hide away, and one palm flatted against his torso to steady herself since his rugged ministrations on her thigh were jostling her slightly. The promise of her future strength in turn made her feel weaker now, and she gritted her teeth to bear his attention but couldn't take it this moment. Unthinking she placed her hand atop his to still him, and she was only mildly to surprised that he obeyed and released his clutch on her muscles to flatten his palm on her skin. Her body visibly sighed, her leg thumped with radiating soreness, and her attention was drawn to her hand atop his where her fingers noticed the touch of something hard and unusual cropped up from his flesh. She circled the tip of her forefinger across it and realized it was the gold ring.

"You always wear this," she noted as though speaking aloud, but it seemed everything had been stripped from her –fear, strength, and her guards.

"It was my father's," he explained a beat later, and she enjoyed the way his voice rumbled inside his chest against her face. It distracted her momentarily from the content of his reply, and then she found herself frowning in confusion and recalling the night he had vocalized his dreams, calling out for his father.

Chewing on the inside of her mouth, she tried to withhold the question, sensing it was too much too soon, and she feared he would abruptly turn on her like a beast lulled to sleep who would awake in a flurry of claws and gnashing teeth. Cautiously she wondered, "Is he not in Alba Longa?"

She heard the keen exhale and the felt the muscles of his chest contract sharply, but she couldn't tell if it were a bluster of hot air snorted in frustration or a good-natured puff.

Rather than answering, he wondered, both wry and amused, "Do you think my brother and I favor each other?"

She envisioned Ascanius and Haemon standing side-by-side as she often found them. Ascanius did not quite match Haemon's height, and the latter was of thick, dark coloring from his untidy chestnut curls to his similarly dark eyes and beard and tanned skin. Ascanius conversely had light brown hair, almost sun-kissed in the daylight, with cool, crisp blue eyes and smooth handsome features. The differences were so obvious when she allowed herself the time to consider them jointly, but knowing that they were brothers, she had never thought anything amiss. Sometimes siblings did not favor each other, and she wondered if Haemon were trying to trap her in some trick question though then she wondered why he would ask at all.

Wetting her lips, she timidly admitted, "No."

"Aeneas is his birth father, not mine," Haemon explained, and as if anticipating the question cusped on her tongue, he added, "My father died in battle when I was eleven."

The realization was too much for even her weariness to dampen, and abruptly she lifted her head to gaze at him, mismatched eyes wide and taken off guard. One corner of his mouth drew back in a lopsided, cynical smirk, though his dark eyes were humorless and solemn.

"I was the same age…" her voice trailed off for his expression did not shift before her eyes.

He'd already known that –most likely since he met her.

Her head bowed to that knowledge, allowing her to search his skin to unravel the numerous implications for it seemed to shed fresh light on every encounter they had ever shared. She understood acutely, to her chagrin and shame why he seemed so pitiless. Look how tall he stood. Look how he shouldered his past with silent resolution. She limply laid her forehead on his chest and swallowed her pride. She was a scared, little girl compared to him, and she couldn't anticipate how bitter that would taste. All these years she thought she was strong, but beside him, she was as fragile and weak as a shard of glass.

"I'm sorry," she confessed at length for she felt the need to fill the void in silence and to sound at least more contrite and mature than she felt. She was such a fool…

"All the armies of Greece came to our shores a year after I was born," he continued whether to complete her shame or merely to legitimize his strength by showing all that he had endured. "My father was the Crown Prince and Commander of our city, and he held back their forces for ten years…" A sudden rush of agitation overcame him, making his body twitch against her, but she did not move nor speak to interrupt him. Shaking his head, he said, "'All my life,' my father would tell me, 'I've lived by a code: Honor the gods, love your woman, and defend your country.'" He ground his teeth briefly and unconsciously gripped onto her thigh, drawing a soft chirp of pain from her that he didn't seem to hear. "Odd that he forgot to include his four children in his code… When one of Greece's best came calling at the gates for him, he left us –his wife, his three sons, and his infant daughter. He knew he would die, but his code told him dying in battle at the hands of Zeus' bastard son was more honorable than defending his family. My father's body burned on the pyre to find peace as a hero in Hades and abandoned us. We lost everything… Our father, our city, our home, our people… That was the cost of his code and his pride."

Haemon grew silent suddenly, torn with these deep memories and long tortured thoughts, and Aurora peeked at him both intimidated to see him so aggravated and sympathetic to his tale. The latter prodded her courage from its cowering position, and she gently commented, "You survived. You prospered—"

"Prospered," he scoffed and chuckled cruelly, fingers burying in deeper into her flesh, and she winced and bit her lip to withhold the sharp pain like knives to her leg. "I was born to inherit the greatest, richest, most powerful throne in the East and that was stolen from me. Now I fight back ruthless tribes with an army of peasants, and at every turn, my legitimacy and my authority are questioned. You all look at me like I'm the nameless bastard come to steal your lands when I have more royal blood running through my veins than those sons of bitches who tear down our walls!"

She whimpered faintly at the final jab of his fingers into her flesh, and her hand curled around him, pulling to make him release. He seemed to push aside his flush of rage to realize the desperate tugging on his hand, his fingers pinned into her soft flesh, and he abruptly released his hold. Five half-moon indentations flared red across her pale skin radiating dull pain, and she exhaled the pent up coil of tension knotting inside her, sensing the cool sweat on her brow.

Temper mediated for the time, he groused distantly, "You see I understand better than any. I've been thrown from my lands when an imposter claimed the throne and forced to flee by boat and on foot to find safe harbor… I was only boy then, but I'm strong now. I can take back your lands. I can protect you."

Her breath uneasily shuddered through her lips, and she lay motionless as his promises seeped through her thin skin. How could this killer, this pitiless prince, this wall of a man be so benevolent –to her of all people who had repeatedly disappointed, enraged, and failed him? Timidly, she found his gaze, and he was stolid, resolved, completely determined, and committed. Was this her battle or his? She blinked uncertainly and felt her fingers still curled around his palm.

"Who protects you?" her soft voice broke the silence, and his brow knotted harder, darkening his blistering eyes beneath them.

She didn't feel the power driving her back onto the mattress but only recognized to heat of his skin and weight of his body pinning her beneath him. He seized her mouth aggressively, teeth biting down on her lower lip, and that dull sting bladed through her sympathy, her soreness, and her exhaustion deep into her belly where she remembered the pervasive ache drumming between her legs. It was denser with her wounded inner thighs still pricking from his last siege, yet she knew how to fill the emptiness and stave off the pain. Her thighs cradled him even as she winced and whimpered into his kiss, but she held him, knowing what he needed. Though she cried out when he pierced her in one, sharp, hard thrust like the first time, though fresh, raw, hot tears tumbled out of her eyes, she held him close. She wanted him to forget.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hey my loves! I know I promised to continue with Iliana & Damian's plot line in this chapter, but it ended up being so long that I figured it was best to let it stand on its own. Were you guys surprised? :) I also know I added the Recommended Songs to this chapter which I used to do in Girl in the War, and I figured I'd add into this chapter as both an ode to GitW and because I really listened to those songs while writing it.

Thank you to AmyLNelson and klandgraf2007 for the super sweet reviews!

Amy: One surprise down! If it were even a surprise since you always seem to pop into my head and know where I'm going! :) However, I doubt you're anticipating what I have planned for Iliana and Damian, and you'll have to wait a little bit for that to play out. Hehe I'm so evil! I'm glad you like Aurora. Sometimes I find myself frustrated with her, which is sad because she's my character, but I wanna shake her and say, 'Stop crying, lady! Buck up!' But I was pleased, and I hope you were as well, with how she behaved this chapter. There's more of a mutual understanding between she and Haemon now, and they have something to distract them from their frustration. Nothing like a good romp to make them momentarily forget they want to strangle each other haha I wonder what you thought of Haemon's account of Hector? It was almost hard for me to write because I love Hector so much, but I adore Haemon too and have to see things through his eyes. So I hope you enjoyed, and by the by, how is school going? I remember how excited you were about that. Hopefully you're still having a blast, and the holidays are around the corner! xoxo

klandgraf: OMG you kill me! Leaving reviews for each chapter :) Thank you so much, girly! I'll try to address them all. Ahem, first, _yes_ the metal thing with Damian. Major ouch. I was actually reading back through that, and I was like I didn't make that sound nearly as gruesome as I saw it in my head but admittedly I was impatient for the kiss haha I'm such a girl! Aurora now somewhat knows about Hector and Troy, but Haemon will explain it more to her later. They're a bit -er- _preoccupied_ at the moment (grin). Second, awwww I'm glad you feel bad for Aeneas. I do adore him so much, and I know he's not his young, quipping, rowdy, womanizing self but still... Yes it must be very hard for him, but if nothing else, he has five kids who would die for him :) I do love the tension between Damian and Iliana too! Damian kinda makes me laugh with how he bosses her about but for her own good, and Iliana has a little bit of Myrina in her, don't you think? She's like, 'I want you idiot. Don't tell me no!' haha Third, yes I was intentionally giving Aurora and Haemon the same sort of past :) Admittedly, when I was first writing this out, I hadn't given her that back story purely to reflect Haemon's past, but it ended up playing out in my favor thankfully! They both share deep scars and complicated histories with their families and have lost everything, but that will allow them to heal each other. I've got much in store! What did you think about this chapter? I hope you enjoyed it, and thanks so much for the reviews, lovely xoxo


	13. Night Falling

Chapter 13  
"Night Falling"

A thundering percussion of knocks rattled the thin door, and a voice called out, "Get out, or pay for another day!"

Haemon groaned deep in his chest and rocked his head to one side. The blood funneled heavy and throbbing behind his eyes with exhaustion and the weight of the storm lingering in the air. He didn't hear the beat of rain pouring down on the roof and realized the storm must have ebbed during the night, though he couldn't much care or consider how that affected their journey.

The man's fist pounded on the door again, and he yelled out, "I know you're in there! Did you hear me?"

"Yes!" Haemon barked back through his raspy voice still waking. From the cool air, the storm, and sleeping on his back, his face and head ached, and his throat was rough and gravelly. "Give me a moment," he snapped out and waited to see if the man would pester him further.

To his mild relief, there was no reply, and he rolled his head to the other side where a bundle of straw-colored hair provided a soft pillow. His tongue was parched and swollen in his mouth, and his lips felt dry. For the moment, the weariness was more persuasive than those mild discomforts, but the knowledge that the owner would be back soon enough if Haemon didn't pay him weighed down on his mind. Groaning again, he rocked his head back to face the ceiling, and reluctantly he squinted one eye open and then the other. The room was still blanketed in mild darkness, though he could see through its thin veil, but it was impossible to tell whether it was morning or night still. How long had they slept? How little had they slept… He inhaled deeply, feeling his tense muscles stretch as his chest expanded, his spine lengthening against the thin mattress, and as he exhaled, his body settled comfortably once more. Only his head throbbed, his throat hurt, and his left shoulder was twisted in numb pain. Frowning, he struggled to command his left arm, but the muscles were dead with sleep so that only his fingers flexed and straightened. Steadily from his hand the sensation of a thousand tiny pins pricking him spread up his forearm and to his bicep, and he gritted his teeth and tried to move his arm to help the blood flow into it and end the torturous feeling.

A soft mewl caught his attention, and he realized rather delayed that she was curled up at his side, lying on her stomach with her hands cupping his forearm, and her head resting upon his bicep like a pillow. She was turned away from him, but the naked line of her back was stuck to his side, so warm and comfortable that he had almost mistaken her an extension of himself. He grimaced with a new dilemma facing him and sat up on his right elbow to decide how best to sneak his limp, tingling arm from her. Patience, especially this early, was not his virtue, and he at length began drawing his arm away and dragged her against him where she rested even as he removed his arm. It hurt more removed of her, and he twisted it to stretch out his tight shoulder and elbow. Aurora groaned a wordless objection, turned to face him and nuzzle her face into his side, and fell asleep immediately. It was a small wonder that neither their yelling back and forth nor his movement had not awoken her, but it was testament to how deeply and soundly she slept.

His eyes softened to see her mussed and tangled halo of hair, her features relaxed and lips parted in sleep, and her naked body curled up to him, and he rubbed his palm along her spine and received an indecipherable grumble from her. He let her sleep. Clearing his sore throat, he sat up completely and twisted so that he feet found the cold floor. He tried massaging his left shoulder, but it did little to ease his soreness. It would disappear by mid-morning, if it were morning that is.

"What are you doing?" she drowsily groaned from behind him, and he twisted to find her eyes still closed and her body unmoving.

"I have to pay the man for another day," he commented through his husky throat, "and check the sky and the ground –and the horse." He frowned at the list piling up already and avoided those duties a moment longer by finding a place for his hand on her lower back above the coarse wool blanket settled around her hips. He enjoyed how soft and warm her skin was, and that he could touch it now wherever, however, whenever he pleased. She was his.

"It's cold," she muttered, still keeping her eyes closed, and drew her elbows closer to her chest.

He took the edge of the blanket to cover her, but when he lifted it up, he noticed the dark patch of dried blood on the mattress near her. What would that little girl think about this when they finally left and she came to clean their room? He kept quiet and drew the edge of the blanket to her shoulders, and he discovered her eyes had parted slightly and were waiting for him.

"Should I rise as well?" she wondered and turned her face to hide a yawn in the mattress beneath her.

"No. There's nothing you can do, and you need to rest."

"You should too," she commented when she had turned her face toward him again. She was considering his naked back rather than his face and quietly pointed out, "You barely slept."

He smirked in a wolfish way, an expression he had inherited from his father, and rubbed a hand across his face to push aside the sleep lingering there. _Three times_, his mind tallied. They had dozed off after the first two, but he had awoken in the middle of the night with a renewed hunger at feeling her naked flesh wrapped around him. It could only be satisfied in one way, and she hadn't turned him away. The memories alone brought a warmth to his gut. Though the beast was more tamed knowing now it could have its fill when it desired, he was roused by her company and by the morning. He wanted her again and would have her –maybe when he returned from these dull responsibilities, yet he was impatient for a taste. He bent across her and found her lips, cupping the back of her head and tangling his fingers in her hair to turn her face to meet him. He was slow, languid, deep, taking his time and savoring her. Her palm flattened along his cheek and across his beard, feeling how his mouth moved and his lips massaged against her. She submitted beneath him without the strength or will to push him away, but she didn't anticipate the way his kiss would wash across her like she drunk him in and felt him warm her blood and bones. Her legs stretched, her hips twisted, and her waist flexed with unconscious want. She was sore in every layer and angle and inch of her skin, muscles, and bones, but she had learned her body could bear the pain. She could be strong in spite of it. He growled low in his throat, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up to attention, and their kisses grew heavier and messier. He caught her lower lip between his teeth and tugged gently, feeling her neck arch with a breathy moan.

The only responsibility he had was the one calling for him, and without hesitation, he laid his body across her, recognizing now the soft curves of her flesh molding to his own. She winced for the flash of pain blading through her, and he caught the faint frown flicker across her features and realized her tenderness. He forgot how delicate she could be, and he had more tact and patience than the night before to ease his weight into his elbows and knees so that he would not hurt her. Still her mouth commanded him, kissing him again once he released her lip, and she was the more insistent and demanding than the timid woman who he had found in his bed. Her sudden boldness and ardor were taunting him to surrender to his carnal needs, but he struggled to slow down. Her thighs parted for his hips, and as he sunk between them, she cried out sharply without warning and pushed him away. He drew back and searched her body to understand where she was pained. Her face was knotted, and a sore, stinging pang stabbed between her legs at the feel of them stretching around his waist and opening to fit him. Her body hadn't healed even if her mind were ready and impatient, but she realized futilely how bruised and raw she felt inside her thighs. She was almost embarrassed by that throbbing pressing up into her, and she turned her head away to avoid his gaze, clenching her eyes closed as she did so to hide away from him.

"You're sore," he muttered in his hoarse voice, both from sleep and arousal, and her cheeks flamed to hear him speak about something so personal no matter what they had done the night before.

She didn't dare respond. She couldn't even bear to look at him. The blood boiled in her face, and she continued to stubbornly hide away.

Despite the unfulfilled desire pulsing in him, he understood he had pushed her too far, but he had never taken a virgin. He had expected the first time, but now… He remembered the blood stain on the mattress and considered her as if she were wounded. She needed time to heal, and he exhaled shakily while he committed himself to that path, no matter how his body ached to know he was betraying its needs.

"You need to rest, Aurora," he decided and eased back onto his knees.

Her eyes fluttered open, green and brown gazing up at him and blinking uncertainly, and her cheeks were still ripe with a flush. She glimpsed at his naked body stacked in front of her and nearly trembled as she recognized what had claimed her the night before. Her eyes closed immediately, but the image was seared in her mind, perhaps imprinted by her burning cheeks. She swallowed and realized her empty stomach was churning and feeling acidic and sick from lack of food.

He chuckled softly when he heard her stomach grumble and added, "I'll bring you something to eat."

"Thank you," she murmured in nearly a whisper and feared her face might burst into flames at any moment.

His chestnut eyes were too preoccupied appraising the senuous lines of her body to notice. Like a hungry wolf licking its chops and taunted with a fresh meal, he considered her from toe to nose. Shaking his burly head, he looked away and thought of all that he needed to do, but from the corner of his gaze, he could see her naked still. He quickly moved away and drew the sheet over her again before he lost his conviction and hurt her. He was only mortal and flawed and eager for what was his.

Before he could change his mind, he forced himself out of the bed, dressed, and left her to rest while he set about his duties. He did his best to ignore the deep-seated ache that yearned to be satisfied and promised himself she would be stronger soon.

‡‡‡

The narrow window gave her little space to view the interior of Alba Longa where the main square was bustling with preparations. In a few days' time, Ariston would lead a contingent to the Albula River where Scipio's troops had begun to progress toward Port Sanna yet again. Their brief respite was a mystery, but Ariston needed no answers to charge through the gates and protect their port. Already he hustled about like a dog released from its chain and oversaw every arrangement. Iliana welcomed the distraction which kept Aeneas and her brothers oblivious to her mercurial moods since Aeneas' celebration. Days, and she had heard nothing from Damian. She chewed anxiously at her bottom lip and continued peering through the space, wringing her hands and aching for a glimpse. Time wore away the logical reasons for his distance –the army soon marching for battle and his finishing weapons and armor for them– and sowed more dangerous concerns. She could not cease thinking of how she carried herself around him that night, practically throwing herself at him and stumbling about in her drunken state, and even now she winced unconsciously as she recalled their last meeting. How could she have been so foolish? Had Damian changed his opinion of her and thus his decision? Suppose he no longer wanted her: what was she to do?

Exhaling shortly, it did little to ease the tension in her belly, and she grumbled beneath her breath and abandoned her station at the window to rearrange some matter or another. She was mostly blind to her actions, the whole of her attention directed at the buzzing beyond her window, and inevitably she abandoned her act and returned to the same spot more agitated and restless than before. She set her hands atop her hips, idly kneading her fingers across the bones, and appraised the activity in the center with no sense of what she was precisely searching for –until it appeared. Amid the crowd, she caught a flash of his black curls, and charged the window for a better view. The bodies shifted, she rose onto the soles of her feet, her eyes strained, and there he was with some spears piled onto his shoulder, managing his wound well with barely a limp, and calling across his shoulder to Pelicles following him with yet more weapons for the armory. The glimpse was too fleeting. She couldn't see what had changed about him when he seemed precisely as she knew him: tall, burly, and smeared with ashes from his work.

Yet she had no chance to consider it further. She had been waiting days for a time when he would speak to her or her father, and when that did not pass as she expected, then for him to be away from his forge long enough for her to infiltrate its walls. Stealing her veil from the counter, she drew it across her hair, hurried out the door of her home, and held the edges near her cheeks to shield the angles of her face from curious eyes. As it was, the city was busy enough not to notice a young woman rushing across the square and through the ajar door of the forge. The inside was sweltering as she had recalled it from the summer months, and she soon discovered the source of the heat: the fire pit which had no doubt burned through the nights and allowed for his work. She briefly appraised the space, more empty than she recalled it since weapons were being taken to the troops, and she felt the familiar tingle of nerves swirling inside her. They were a reminder of her entry without Damian's consent and her anxiety that she would be found out, and both spurred her to advance toward the wooden beam where she had been overpowered nights before. Even now, the memory called a flush to her cheeks, and she reached a trembling hand toward the pole. Her thoughts were wholly engrossed in the impression of his lips on her, her hands pinned above her, the sheer power that forced her to submit… She reached as though she could touch the memory, call upon that sensation once more, but abruptly her hand fell as she shook away the thought.

_No…_

She had more pressing matters to attend, and she squatted onto her heels and used her fingers to search through the straw and ashes until she found the dirt beneath. Her brow knit in aggravation and frustration, and she extended the reach of her search, sifting, feeling, rooting for it, but found nothing. Sighing her annoyance, she glanced toward the table, retracing their movements that night, and she hurried to the seat and began looking through the straw at its base. Her fingers were stained black from the ashes and dirt, but she was oblivious to the effect. There was nothing to interrupt the flooring, and her anxiety was steadily building her thoughts into a frenzy.

_It must be here!_

She wet her lips and let her gaze scan the interior, wondering, thinking, planning. Impulsively she stood up and began rummaging through the few articles on the tabletop. She moved aside the vessel of water, shuffled through the various pieces of parchment, looked beneath the dirtied linen, and continually found the grain of the wood and nothing else.

A short cough interrupted her search, and she spun on her heels to face Damian like she had never seen him: so furious as if a tempest roaring its ugly head before her. She shrunk unconsciously, hearing the slight rattle of the vessel heaving on the table as she knocked into it, yet his black gaze never left her, pinning her in place like nails to her feet, boring through her as though he could see to her purpose, and radiating suspicion.

"Looking for something?" he prompted, so low and gruff it called anxious chills across her.

"Forgive me," Iliana blurted out in a quivering, nervous voice. "I lost my necklace. I thought-I thought it had fallen while I was here because it wasn't where it should be, but I can't remember if I took it off or set it aside, and my mother gave it to me and I…"

His rigid stature flexed as his shoulders sunk slightly lower down his back. Though his eyes remained hard and textured with uncertainty, his body by all appearances had abandoned its fighting posture. Iliana likewise realized she could breathe, but she gazed at him with eyes wide and contrite as a guilty child's. He started toward her, limping stiffly for his pride wouldn't allow the wound to affect him more, and she placed a palm on the edge of the table and felt the wood bear into her thighs as she leaned back against it. There was no room for her to retreat. No place for her to run. She nearly trembled with ripe anxiety, but he turned from her and disappeared into his private quarters. Confused, she stared after him wondering if he meant to dismiss her, if he wanted her to follow, or perhaps he meant to return… A moment later he reentered the common space and lifted his hand, dangling the chain from his forefinger.

Her sights set on it, following the length of delicate gold to the pendant at the base, and she forgot her apprehension in a moment when she rushed to him and stole the necklace from his fingers. She clutched the piece to her chest, her eyes closed briefly as though to say a silent prayer, and when she opened them once more, she discovered him watching her warily. It reminded her of her worst fears kindled during the days and nights without him, and she swiftly slipped the necklace over her head and tucked the ends into her dress for safekeeping, giving herself ample time to gather her wits as gracefully as a princess ought.

"Thank you," she said and clasped her empty hands before her like she could capture her nervous and troubled energy between her palms. It was not so simple –not with him so near. "You cannot know how dear this is to me…"

Even at the admission, she released one hand to touch her fingers to her chest where the necklace hung. Truthfully, when she had discovered it amiss, she had nearly torn apart their home in searching for it. She was so distraught the servants, her father, and even her brothers joined the search, but each found nothing. Poor Nereus had even looked around the city square and almost taken to his hands and knees to look through the grass. Iliana, meanwhile, had rather dramatically and hopelessly been reduced to tears. There was nothing she treasured more that her mother had given her. Nothing.

"It was the first gift my father," she paused and amended, "Aeneas gave to my mother. Before she passed, she gave it to me." Amazingly, her throat constricted beyond her control, and her eyes pricked. Swallowing against the tension, she admitted, "It makes me sick to think I could lose something so precious."

"It's safe," he said neutrally though she assumed it was for her benefit. "It's fortunate it wasn't trampled before I noticed it."

"Yes," she agreed immediately, and her face seemed awash with the brief thought of that tragedy. Remembering herself, however, she startled out of her emotional state and attempted to tuck away her severe feelings attached to this necklace. Damian had not moved, and she noted how she was surely intruding. "Thank you," she said again. "I should leave you to your work…"

"Is that the only reason you've come?" he wondered, and her chestnut eyes peeked at him uncertainly. "Did you forget our conversation as well?"

Before she could suppress it, the blood bloomed in her cheeks, and she felt so aggravated and beyond hope that she almost looked at him in defeat. She could never seem to conduct herself how she wanted to around him. "No… I thought you might have changed your mind –after how I behaved."

"You don't need to be ashamed," he said, and his sudden clemency after his distance rattled her reasoning. How could he be two sides the same coin? He always tied her in knots, and she had no chance of righting herself when he kept his face so stoic. "You're not the first person to drink more than she can handle."

Shaking her head lightly, her brow was knit in confusion, and she pointed out, "You never…" She couldn't bring herself to say it aloud in case this were all some dream of her drunken imagination, and she blinked to be sure it was real.

"I've been busy. Your brother will march to battle soon."

He motioned with one hand toward the table, and she lethargically found her usual seat and watched him slowly take his own. One hand gripped tightly to his thigh to balance his weight, the other palm rested on the table, and he seemed to bow his head to hide whatever expression flitted across his face when he bent and his muscles contracted to help him sit.

"And I wanted to speak with you when you were in a clearer mind," he added through a tighter throat.

"How is your wound?" she wondered immediately, almost cutting him off as he spoke.

"It heals slowly," he confessed after a moment and poured two cups of water.

"Have you kept salve on it? Did the healer give you something to stave off infection?" she persisted, clearly aggravated with his clipped reply.

His brow perked up in the center, letting his dark eyes consider her dubiously from beneath, and for the first time one corner of his mouth hiccupped in amusement. "Yes. Don't change the subject, Princess."

_I don't want you hurting!_ her mind retorted, but it was bolder than her lips which merely pursed in unspoken annoyance.

The same flicker of a smile fell, and he nudged one of the cups of water toward her and sipped at his own.

"Will Pelicles not return soon?" she wondered quietly and glanced at the door as though the same awkward, blonde-headed juvenile might burst inside.

"No," Damian assured her and set his cup on the table. "He's taking a tally of the soldiers and the weapons and armor to be sure we've enough… With his wandering mind, it might take him 'til nightfall."

"You shouldn't be so harsh with him," she decided with the sort of lax tongue that often got her into trouble if she didn't mind it.

His eyes narrowed subtly, and she wasn't sure if he was taunting when he said, "His protector, are you?"

"No." She rearranged herself nervously in her seat and explained, "It's not his fault the gods gave him no grace or wit, and it's not for lack of trying. He wants to please you. Surely you see that. It's sad almost to watch how he scurries after you."

"Have you been watching him _scurry_ after me?" he spurred, as neutral and removed as a blind, deaf mute, which frustrated and confused her further. What was his game?

She rolled her eyes petulantly and said, "I thought you wished to speak about the other night."

"I do, but you're insistent to avoid it. So let us speak about Pelicles or whomever else you'd prefer to discuss."

Her mouth fell ajar in utter incredulity. He was the one who had promised to speak to her father and not followed through on his word. She should be frustrated –not him!

"Forgive me if I don't want to be discovered in your home alone before you make your intentions known –that is if they still are your intentions or if you plan to revoke everything you said!"

Her tongue was sharper than it had ever been between them, and the brief satisfaction it brought her paled immediately to see how his features hardened. She would take them back to reverse the afternoon and have another chance at this conversation, but she was so confused and frustrated and afraid of the sway he held over her. Did he not know he was driving her mad?

"You're angry with me," he understood rather obviously given her behavior, but she felt the same anger burrow down inside her once it was acknowledged. It brought her no peace.

"I just want to understand what you want," she corrected and exhaled slowly. "I don't want to be promised something and you to do another. I don't want to be toyed with–"

All at once, the warmth of his hand swallowed her own, and she felt the pressure of his fingers wrapping around her palm somehow silence her tongue. Looking into his dark eyes, they nearly bladed through her for the raw sincerity.

"I'm not," he swore and waited, searching her face as if to be sure his words hit their mark. "But there is a time and place for these things, and approaching the King when he is preparing for one of his sons to lead a contingent of his troops to battle is not the time. Once your brother leaves, I hope to speak with him."

"You hope?"

"I will," he corrected hastily and a worn look passed across his face that she couldn't understand. He moved to release her hand, but she held on stubbornly, even pulling to make him look at her once more.

"I don't want you to do this because you feel guilty for anything that we've done."

"I wouldn't," he said though the edges of his eyes relaxed as though abruptly exhausted of some burden. "But I still wish I were a better man to turn you away."

"Please," she blurted out and caught her bottom lip between her teeth, pained by the insinuation.

His thumb brushed across her hand reassuringly even if he looked so remorseful in that moment.

"Why would you say that?"

"You are sweet and trusting and kind…" He almost spoke of those qualities as if they were somehow faults. "You know so little of me… You don't realize I can't give you all that you need."

"Don't presume to tell me what I need," she said haughtily and tugged their joined hands toward her breast. "Yes, I know little about you, as little as you do me. I don't care about your station. I don't care about your past. You don't have to apologize and repent for whomever you were before you entered these walls because I see the man before me now, and I want him. I need him."

The electric shock of their gazes locking was a poor warning. All at once, he charged across the table, ripping at her hand and dragging her to him, and their mouths collided halfway with such force their foreheads hit and made Iliana's body recoil. Yet he held fast to her hand, keeping her from slipping from him, and the soft heat of his kiss smothered any objections. Instead she felt the table embedded in her hips and leaned further with her chest, and she groaned faintly in aggravation of its impediment when she missed the feel of his hands and body on her. Her fingers curled around his hand, held tightly, pulling like he pulled her, and she grasped the back of his neck to tangle her fingers in his black curls. She tugged forcefully, not satisfied with the pressure of his mouth and nose kneading against her when she wanted so much more.

Slowly he backed away, and even as she struggled to follow, the table buried deeper into her belly and made it impossible to find him again. She tugged at his neck, gripping to his palm, and he gently unwound the hand holding to his nape. A wry smile lifted his lips to see her eyes pulsing impatiently and aggravated to be kept at bay, and her lips were framed with her bronze skin pink and flush from his beard. Exhaling, he grappled for a piece of his willpower to hold him at bay. She was dangerous to his conviction, and his boundaries were circling tighter and tighter around his chest. It took less with each taste of her to push him toward the edge, and she was blindly baiting him when he was trying to be an honorable man for her.

"I don't deserve you," he confessed," but I will spend my life earning your love."

Her features fell subtly as though disappointed, and she countered, "Haven't I shown you? You don't need to earn anything."

He tensed like her words were too much for him to bear, and somehow his dark eyes looked the heavier even as she strained to appease him. Whatever this weight he carried, she didn't know how to free him of its burden.

"You should leave," he decided at last, and this time she agreed with him.

She wished to stay indefinitely, but their chance had not yet come –not until he spoke to Aeneas. No matter how it tortured her, she needed to wait and to trust he would keep his word. Releasing his hand, she straightened and felt the mild pulsing of discomfort in her abdomen from the table, another barrier keeping them apart, and she wondered how she would behave one day when there was nothing to separate them. She couldn't even fathom the sensation, both excited and intimidated by it, and she tugged her veil into place since it had fallen about her shoulders.

"Thank you for keeping my necklace safe," she muttered and felt more complete with it hanging around her neck.

"I would have returned it sooner had I known how distraught you were."

She doubted he would have been able to without drawing suspicion, but she liked to believe that he meant it. His words were as seductive as his handsome face.

"You wouldn't lie to me," she said abruptly, and he seemed to hesitate, whether unsure if it were a question or statement or something else.

Dropping his gaze pensively to the dirty floor, he said, "I wouldn't hurt you."

The differentiation between the two confused her, and she felt no greater satisfaction in his response than before. But for once she knew she needed to walk away and give them both the space to consider what they were promising. Her life would never be the same, and she wasn't sure how to resolve her complicated feelings on that matter.

"Be careful carrying such heavy things with your wound," she said, and another humorless smile traced his lips. "Be well."

She turned then and hurried out the door, clutching her veil about her face, and she rushed across the square to her home once more.

‡‡‡

"I cannot accept this insult!" Savas bellowed across the hall from his place sinking irritably in his throne.

Generals and counselors were lined before him in the late afternoon light filtering through the columns and filling the space. Still, fires were kindled to keep away the growing chill of fall, and the men were wrapped in heavier fabrics to signal the changing seasons.

"They steal my niece from beneath my nose! They fake attack!"

The fury in his tone singed the air, making the men stiffen to bear its power charging at them.

"And you do _nothing_!"

"My Lord," one of the generals spoke up, "our men chase down Prince Ascanius–"

"I don't care if they chase him!" Savas barked lividly. "I need them to _capture_ him!"

"The Albans are the strongest riders in the West," another general pointed out to his own misfortune for Savas turned the penetrating temper of his eyes on him.

"This is your excuse for your incompetence?" he hissed. "Not one of you has made progress! Do you not find this matter of importance?"

"Of course, My Lord–"

"I must be blind then," Savas declared grandly and bent forward in his seat, thrusting his features knotted with rage into the light of one basin's fire. "Galen, am I blind?"

"My King," the counselor muttered nervously and glanced toward the generals and other members of the council who were gazing at him with a mixture of derision and pity. "No," he answered. "No, My Lord."

"Surely I must be," Savas continued and swept his hand toward the men in the hall, "because before me I see men failing at every turn and spitting on my family's honor!"

By this time, the King's audience was wise enough to still their tongues for their reponses could only condemn them more. Savas lifted his brow impatiently as though prodding animals in front him for the weak spot to make them break.

"A princess of Apulia has been captured by rogue princes in our own land! None of you saw this betrayal! Two bastards from Latium outwitted my entire army and council!"

"They may have had help, My King," one counselor spoke up after conversing shortly with a servant who had entered the hall unnoticed.

"What are you suggesting?" Savas growled and strained to make out the counselor's face. "Come closer."

The man stepped forward into the King's line of sight and explained, "We've intercepted a messenger riding to Alba Longa."

"Who would dare to betray their country?"

"Atlan, the huntsman, My Lord," he admitted and frowned deeply. "I've not dared to open the letter." He held it out as though offering it to the King, and a servant rushed forward to take the rolled parchment and carry it up to Savas who reached forward and nearly tore the parchment from the poor man's hands.

Murmurs broke out across the hall in the interim, and one or two men yelled out, "Treason!"

Savas promptly unraveled the scroll and began reading desperately, neck jerking from side to side. His face captured the brunt of the insult, festering into a look of pure fury and disgust, black pupils widening as if to overtake the pale blue halo corralling them.

Snarling, he commanded, "Bring him to me."

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hi my lovelies! Ahhhhh Savas is his usual douchey-self! Whatever will he do to Atlan? What did the message say? Hmmmmm to be answered soon enough. Next chapter is the big reveal for this plot line with Iliana and Damian! I'm pretty excited :) Hope everyone is getting in the spirit for the holiday season!

Thanks to Miss AmyLNelson for the review! Haha however brief the conversation! Haemon's a typical man obviously, but he was a bit sweeter this time around. In the next chapter (if there's room cause this thing with Damian/Iliana will take quite a bit of space), they'll have a chance to open up more to one another. It's a slow process, but it will be worth it. I have big plans for them! I'm just letting them kinda ease out of focus as I work up to the "climax" of this plot line with Damian/Iliana. Ahhhhhh! I'm going to pat myself on the back for being elusive. I think it helps to have multiple things at once. It drives me nuts cause I have to plan chapter by chapter what the hell I'm doing, but I hope it keeps the action rolling and the plot interesting. OMG I cannot express to you how jealous I am that you'll be studying in Paris! I was there for a week over the summer and then I studied at a university in Lyon. France was literally the best experience of my life. You'll have so much fun :) Oh and the shopping... Oh how my heart behaves! And Italy? Oh gurl! I've never been, but everyone tells me the men are -uh- well our kind of men ;) That sounds so amazing. I'm so happy for you! What a great opportunity! As for me, I'm doing all right. I finally got through this semester this past Monday and have of course fallen ill (probably because I was having too much fun the first few days) so I can't even fully enjoy my freedom haha BUT it makes for good writing time! It's good to hear you're doing so well, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter too xoxo


	14. Called Out in the Dark

Chapter 14  
"Called Out in the Dark"

Iliana sipped at the cool water in her cup and glanced at the window where the darkness was thick and heavy as fall chased summer away. Soon days would be shorter, and winter would come. She drummed her nails idly along the bronze to hear the soft succession of clinks and searched for some sign of the moon, but the sky was mostly purple and blue, warming as the sun rose in the east. Night was only just yielding to day. The servants were not yet awake, and Aeneas was asleep in his chambers. He had been more tense and quiet during these days, the only sign that Ariston's absence worried him, for he otherwise kept up his brave front, smiling, reassuring, and confident, but with three of his four sons away from Alba Longa, it was clear the old King was ill at ease. Iliana could scarcely appreciate or empathize with his melancholy moods: she was too preoccupied facing the emptiness of her life. It had been four days since Ariston had left the gates with a contingent of Alban soldiers to halt Scipio's advance. Eyes were torn between looking north toward the Albula River or east to the Sabines Tribes, fearing they might ride to Umbria's aid and attack Alba Longa while Ariston was away. Iliana's gaze was the only directed out the kitchen window, across the city square, and to the forge where she saw the fires burning –proof that he lived and worked– but she had not heard or seen anything of the blacksmith.

Yet again foreboding crept into her bones since she had last seen him, almost a week, and she worried she had underestimated his apprehension. Last they had spoke, he had seemed so forlorn and reluctant to agree to this arrangement. _But he was the one to broach the topic!_ her mind stubbornly retorted, and she was inclined to sympathize with it. Still, how could she be so blind? How could she not have known? She bowed her head and stared into the cup of water, through the clear liquid to the shape of the cup holding it, searching its grasp to understand why he hesitated.

_What if he's fallen ill?_

His wound could have become infected. He could be suffering without anyone to care for him. Her brow knit to imagine such a terrible situation, and she wished with every fiber of her being that it was not the case.

_He's strong. He was faring well last you saw…_

If her short years had taught her anything, it was the inconsistency of life. Illness could topple the greatest of men, and death was certain for all –even men as fearless and invincible as Hector –even women as strong and tender as her mother. She chewed uncertainly on her lip and took to wringing her hands about the chalice, rotating it round and round and round until her palms were rubbed raw and pink from the revolutions. Wincing and sighing, she gazed across her shoulder to the window where the sky was subtly lighter to hint at the passing of time while she remained lost in her thoughts and shielded away from what passed beyond these walls. She gathered herself to her feet and cautiously drew closer to the window to peek outside and toward the forge. The door was closed. Nothing was available for her to cast her eyes upon. The structure was as unassuming and calm as the rest of their lands. None of her countrymen treaded through the streets, but it was to early. They were asleep with their families. She wet her dry lips and swept her chestnut eyes up and down the empty streets and then to the forge.

She continued this thorough search twice, thrice, four times before she tore herself away from the window and sat down at the table once more to continue nursing her cup of water. She had avoided wine when she could since that night… She cringed and placed her face in her palms, resting her elbows on the table to support it dead weight. Surely that was the root of his distance. She had shown herself to be the sort of woman who drank, danced, and snuck into a man's home with the worst intentions, but she wasn't that woman! Her courage came in bursts and as easily sizzled away leaving her timid and blushing. That was the manner of woman she was: more a show of bravery than she could truly stand behind. It was an act. It was part of her role as a princess. Should she have been more timid? More reserved? Perhaps that was the sort of woman he desired –whom he would promise to marry and stand by his word.

"Why would you lie to me?" she wondered restlessly and stood yet again to pace to the window and peer across its threshold to the forge.

_You said you would never hurt me… Were you afraid to hurt me?_

"Then why offer it at all!"

She groaned under her breath and turned away from the window. She would drive herself mad if she continued in this way. She would spend the rest of her days at this window, wearing her spot in the floor, and gazing longingly at him.

"I'm tired of looking for you," she whispered, her eyes set upon the floor, and at the bottom of her anxiety and sorrow, a fresh thought occurred to her. "I can't always look for you…"

Her words landed on an empty room, but they were meant for her, to bolster her intent, and to give her the strength to carry out her brash plan. She would be brave. She would make a stand. Her insides were gripped by the unsteady hand of apprehension, the deep intuition of a woman warning her against this, but her bull-headed self made a brazen appearance. It promised action, and that was more seductive than any reasoning. Without warning, she hurried to her room to find a veil to cover her hair and features, and she quietly checked down the corridor where her father's chambers were. She could see nothing beneath the crack of the door, and she waited with breaths bated, pressed against the edge of wall, and listened to the creaks of their empty house in the first breath of morning. She waited, but only silence met her.

Drawing a steadying breath, she opened the door and slipped into the corridor which was forgivingly empty. Perhaps she might accomplish this with no one the wiser. Her audacious, stubborn head promised her it was possible even as her gut twisted tighter. Before it could spoil her conviction, she hurried down the corridor, through the atrium, and out of the home where the crisp, cool touch of night brushed across her skin. It seemed to light the nerves in her belly on fire, simmering inside her with misgivings, but above all, she needed to do this –for her sake, for her sanity! And she had already dared to step foot outside her home. She had committed herself to this action, and she was assured it was too late to retreat and to stew spineless and dissatisfied in her home.

_No more!_

She charged across the square, near running though she was too nervous and clumsy to dare, and she feared being too noisy. When she reached the door of the forge, she was almost startled by her own audacity that she was truly doing this, and at the same time, her courage spurred her to complete her task. It was too late to turn away. She would see this through to whatever end. Two fingers touched the rough wood and pushed, and she heard the sharp, quiet squeak of the door swinging upon its hinges. It parted a few inches, enough for her to peek inside and see the dim interior. The fire had died, but the embers glowed for the pit was kindled so often and kept burning at all hours to manage his work. Yet its angle shed little light. She was so concentrated on the work area that she realized rather delayed that she still stood on the outside. Fearful that someone might notice and that she was lingering too long, she pushed the door open farther and slipped inside the narrow space, feeling the door scratch across her chest as she squeezed through. She left the door ajar behind her because the outside shed some light on the space, and she stood for a moment, heart thundering through her chest, to consider the space.

The darkness looked alive, shifting and teaming with some energy, and the grip inside her felt like it might rip through her. Her mouth was dry, and her throat was caught. Only her heart hammered on its persistent pace, and she felt it trembling out through her limbs. Her hands tangled in the edges of her veil, and at last, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She took a tentative step forward, glancing back and forth between her path and what lie ahead of her to be sure she didn't trip or run into something. For a moment, she briefly considered calling out to him and realized how foolish that would be, but what other option did she have?

_He's asleep…_ _Of course he's asleep!_

Naturally this part of her plan had never occurred to her when she was pacing sleeplessly inside her home. She gritted her teeth and took another step. He will be so angry when he discovers what she's done, and a cool tremor of fear curled down her spine. But she needed to speak with him, and she knew the hours he kept. He seemed to immune to sleep by her assumptions, and yet it was clear, on this rare ill-timed occasion he was asleep while she crept through his empty home.

_What are you doing? _her good reason hissed at her, and she frankly had no answer to give it.

She was timidly, slowly tip toeing through the room, and after an eternity it seemed, she had made her way to the edge of the workspace where a doorway to her left opened up to his private quarters. She had only been in them once before when she was fleeing his home after the first time they had kissed, and then she had been too flustered and terrified to notice or remember its layout. She stepped toward it. The darkness was thicker and heavier in this space where the light didn't reach. Her hands were shaking and knotted tighter in the ends of her veil. She flexed them as if to still them and then understood it was impossible because her whole body was trembling. This was the most foolish thing she had ever done in her entire life, and she had half a mind to turn and run. But she couldn't. She had to see him. She had to know. If nothing else, he would have to face what he was doing to her…

She reached the threshold and peered into the darkness, yet again taking the time to let her sights adjust even if it seemed she were taking too long and being too slow. How long had she been in here already? Would the servants be waking soon to find her room empty? The thought spurred her to take the first step into his private quarters, and she stiffened immediately and looked from side to side with only her eyes first as if any movement might alert him to her. When nothing happened, she allowed her neck to turn so that she could assess the interior. Her eyes startled upon the small bed in the farthest corner across from her, and she nearly jumped herself to know that she had truly done it –found him sleeping and unaware. From the faint, poor lighting, she could make out the frame of the bed, the neglected blanket hanging over the edge alongside his shirt, and then his silhouette. He had fallen asleep on his belly with his long limbs strewn about him and the material still tied about his waist. Her cheeks burned even the darkness to know he was half-naked for her eyes to feast upon though the bandage tied about his chest interrupted the shade of his naked skin. She very carefully took a step closer, noticing something odd about his position, though she couldn't understand why it bothered her. Her curiosity grew, and she edged closer from which position she could see one of his arms hanging limp from the side of the bed. Under his fingertips an empty vessel was on its side. Had he been drinking?

She shook her head as she recalled how he had behaved with her when she had drunk too much. She had assumed him averse to it. Had she tortured him as well? Drove him to drink? She chewed her lip nervously, her anxiety coming to a crescendo as she found the corner of his bed and followed it up toward his limp arm. He had not strayed or moved in the slightest, and she did not know how to rouse him or even if she should.

_Never approach a sleeping man_, one of her fathers had warned her. Was it Hector or Aeneas? Surely Aeneas… She was too young to remember Hector, but being near Damian like this completely shattered her reason, and she found herself confused and unraveled by even these obvious details.

But then why had she come here? Suppose he awoke when she was retreating? What was she to say then? She released her lip and slowly drew a breath. One hand unwound from her veil and reached out. She saw it shaking even in the pale light. It was curling in on itself to avoid its duty, but she stretched it toward his naked shoulder and hesitated. Her fingers hovered above the surface of his skin. She could accidentally touch him, but her whole body had stilled like a statue.

_What are you doing?_ her reason plagued her again.

She had no answer, and she touched his shoulder to wake him.

The next thing she felt was the mattress beneath her, a heavy weight across her waist, and the touch of something cold and wet on her neck. Her eyes blinked in confusion, opening and closing, and she focused through the darkness and discovered his pale face above her. Horror and surprise tore away the sleep from him with such haste that his face was contorted in an unpleasant, haggard look she couldn't understand. His black eyes were wide and wild staring down at her, and she heard something fall and clatter on the floor beside them. He tore the veil away from her hair, bundled it against her neck, and pressed down until she coughed with the weight of him bearing on her throat. Her gaze couldn't stray beyond his face. She had never seen him so pale, so paralyzed, like her. Her body felt numb, she could barely breathe for his weight, but the terror in his face sent a cold blade of intuition tearing through her. It ended at her neck beneath his pressure where she realized her skin was pulsing, throbbing, radiating, and her brow knit in confusion staring up at him, begging him to explain. His features were stony as she reached a blind hand up to touch the edge of her veil and dared beneath it. Her fingers met something damp and sticky on her skin… A tremor disrupted his features, his eyes seemed to waver, and she knew.

The numbness was fading as the panic set in, and she hurriedly grasped the veil and pressed it to her throat to stop the bleeding. She coughed again for her heart had picked up its pace. Her breathing was heaving to feed its speed, wheezing through her parted lips, and she choked on the sudden effort to inhale and exhale. Damian lifted one hand to assess the bloodstained veil beneath it, and without explanation, he removed his hands, leaving her alone to cup the veil to her wound, which she did trembling and white-knuckled. He stood from where he was pinning her down and rushed away, and she heard his footfalls on the floor, though she didn't dare lift her head to stare after him. The pain was sharp and growing agonizing with every passing second. The veil was wet and cold in her hands sopping up her blood. Her bottom lip trembled as she stared up at the ceiling, every piece of her shaking, but she hadn't dared to move. Her skin was cold, but her insides were alight with a collision of nerves, adrenaline, and alarm. The open wound was fire. Her eyes pricked and lost focus as hot tears pooled between her lashes, then falling from the edges down her temples and from the inner corners down her nose. They were cooled the moment the night air touched them but could not shatter her concentration on the char of fresh, raw pain at her neck. She clutched the veil tighter, feeling the dampness seep between her fingers, and her chest heaved with a sudden, shattering sob. Her eyes clenched shut, forcing the rest of the tears through her lashes, and she gritted her teeth to restrain another primal snivel.

She felt the weight of him return around her waist, and she opened her eyes eagerly just for a glimpse to know she was not alone –that perhaps he had returned with the healer or some other aid. Instead, she found her blacksmith alone, so pale, so stricken: his features seemed at once hollow and haunted. Too late did she realize the unyielding pressure of his knees on her elbows, forcing her hands to fall from her wound and open, stained with her own blood on either side of her head. He was heavy; he was hurting her; she whimpered faintly and struggled to adjust herself as if he might abandon her, but he was as oppressive and dense as a boulder weighing her down. She searched his face to understand why he would do this. Her gaze flickered away from his black, stony eyes when she noticed something glowing from the edge of her sights and found a hot iron in his hand. Immediately his purpose was clear, and the current of panic and terror electrified her to her core, like molten lead in her blood then weighing her in place so that she couldn't move even if Damian had released her. He would cauterize the wound.

Her chestnut eyes rushed to find him again, so wide and trembling, she felt they were pulsing from her face like the raw dread growing inside her belly. His own were hooded beneath his heavy, knit brow, and he drew away the veil from her neck to see the wound he had caused. His body shuddered, his spine curled, and yet he eased the hot stake closer to her.

"Please" croaked out of her gravelly throat, and his approach stilled as if on command. Swallowing thickly, she begged, staring up into his black eyes, tears falling down her temples, "Please…"

He inhaled shakily and funneled more of his weight into his knees, bruising her elbows and pinning her harder. He adjusted his grip on the rod and took her chin in his other hand, guiding her face away so that he could see her wound. Her jaw trembled in his hand. Her fingers curled into fists. The tears tumbled across her nose, stuck pieces of her hair to her face, and buried in the mattress.

"Please!" she pleaded like a gust of air from her lungs and jerked against his grip on her jaw, but his fingers bored into her skin to hold to her bone. Her heart was beating through her chest. She knew the fate in store for her, and she couldn't accept it. She sobbed, body contracting harshly even as he held her down, and she heaved unnaturally to breathe, choking on her own gasps for air and sucking in the tears lining her nose and mouth.

"Please!"

She groaned in her throat, feeling the heat of the iron near enough its radiating warmth touch her skin and warned of what was to come.

"Please… Please."

Her voice was growing hoarse and weak. The grip on her jaw had tightened until it felt like glass he could shatter, her hands were tingling as his knees cut off the circulation in her arms, and somewhere amid the sticky touch of tears and blood on her skin, the radiating pain in her neck and elbows and jaw, and the crude terror flooding her, a vain spark of hope hung stubborn in the base of her skull. He would stop for her.

"Plea—" Her final appeal was interrupted by the searing, scorching, all-consuming touch of the iron on her wound. The smell of blood and skin burning singed the air, swallowed by her shrill scream, and the whole of her body curled in agony. She had never felt pain so acute and severe. As soon as the iron touched her, it was drawn away. The wound was mangled, red, bloody, disgusting, but it was sealed. She writhed blindly, kicking her legs, fighting her hips beneath him, flexing her elbows as if she could manage to hit him, and yet she was completely powerless. She was reduced to primal sobs, whimpers, groans that did little to capture or expel the resounding echo and persistent throb of pain all through her. She needed to run. She needed to scream. She was pinned and overcome by the very man who promised he would never hurt her.

His grip on her jaw relaxed and allowed her to turn her head so that she faced him once more, and she fought the moment his forehead touched her own. His nose lined beside hers. He kissed the corner of her mouth. She growled and tried to buck him away.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, voice grating up his throat as if he were struggling to speak.

Hot, agitated breaths shuddered through her nostrils for her teeth ground together. She groaned, her skin writhed with agony, and she was so furious and heartbroken that it was him. _How can you do this to me!_ Her eyes fluttered in distress and locked onto the black orbs hanging heavy above her. Even in the dim light, they shone with sorrow and disgust and caught her attention to still her long enough to make out his pain manifested on his face. Yet the throbbing, shooting pang couldn't be soothed, even by his remorse, and her body writhed with the need to throw him off.

Not a moment later Damian was torn from her and thrown against a small table where he howled shortly as the wood embedded in his wound.

"Get off of her!" a voice bellowed thick and powerful as thunder through the space, and Iliana nearly recoiled with fright until she recognized Eber half-dressed, hollow-eyed, and standing spread and ready for battle in Damian's room. Their gazes met, both confused and startled by the other, and Eber saw the bloody mess on her neck, his face pinching in disgust and horror, as he growled out, "What have you done!"

A low groan, more wounded than menacing, responded as Damian struggled to find his feet. He was never given the chance. Eber charged him and slammed his burly fist into Damian's face. The blacksmith tumbled back, stumbled over his leaden feet, and grunted as his raw burnt back met the wall and Eber's fist found his face again. His blows were unending, there was a distinct crack, and then blood spewed out of Damian's nose, down his chin, and to his neck. Still the blacksmith didn't fight, only coughed and groaned and fell.

"Stop," Iliana begged shortly, grimacing at any movement that tested the wound on her neck.

Another man rushed into the room but made no move to stop Eber. He instead hurried to Iliana's side, knelt at the bed, and tried to attend to her wound.

"My Lady…"

She pushed away his open hand offering help and struggled to see past him to Damian coughing on the floor, the dark stain tainting the bandage around him, and she commanded forcefully, "Stop!" but her voice sounded so weak and hoarse. Fresh tears matted her lashes and dampened her cheeks. The sight of Eber kicking Damian in his wounded side was reduced to blurry shadows, yet she heard the sharp, weak groan of pain.

"Stop!"

The command was cusped on her tongue, but the harsh tone was that of a man shouting from the doorway. She blinked to clear her eyes of tears and struggled through the dim light and wavering lines of her gaze to make out Nereus' figure standing tense and furious. His blue eyes swept from Damian curled on the floor, nose, face, and chest bloody to his little sister sprawled across the blacksmith's bed. The implication was more than enough to sentence Damian to death without even considering the wound he had given her.

Iliana's blood ran cold, her burn pulsed hot, and she pleaded for her elder brother's attention, "Nereus… No." _It's my fault! I did this!_

"Pick him up," Nereus snapped sharply and seemed at once unraveled and strung together with rage. The room remained still as the order sifted through them. The Prince was not so patient. "Now!"

Eber with his bloodstained knuckles took one of Damian's shoulders, the villager helping Iliana took the other, and only then did the Princess notice the pale, terror-struck blonde boy standing in the corner. Pelicles who wouldn't dare enter far into the space and lingered about one of the far edges like a shadow clinging to the walls. Their regards locked briefly, but Pelicles' was too molten with anxiety to be held and filtered to the dirty floor. Both men heaved Damian to his feet. The blacksmith was unsteady, and his handlers were not gentle. They dragged him from the space, his heavy feet dragging behind him, and still, he did not fight or utter a word.

"Please," she whispered hoarsely, staring hollow-eyed and shaking after him. "Nereus—"

"Hush now!" her elder brother hissed as if reprimanding a dog with one, swift kick.

Iliana's tongue curled in all she wished to say: _It was my fault! I should be punished!_

"You'll have your chance to speak, but first…" The Alban Prince was at her side before she recognized his movement. She had been too concerned chasing the final glimpse of Damian and his captors disappearing through the threshold.

_What will become of him?_

"Look at the mess he made," Nereus said, seeming briefly sick to see his youngest sibling, his only sister with such a bloody mark on her slender neck. "Call the healer!" he commanded toward Pelicles who had yet to move. "Be swift about it!"

The boy stumbled over his feet and fell in a tangle of lithe limbs.

"Hurry," Nereus growled shortly.

Pelicles scurried to his feet and out the doorway, leaving Iliana alone with her brother whose uneven breath betrayed his stoic front.

"Please," she attempted yet again though this night she was mute and invisible to all those around her it seemed.

"Enough, Iliana!" He swallowed gruffly and shook his head as he pushed some of her chestnut curls away from the wound to better see it. "He will die for this…"

_No!_

Her eyes pulsed and warmed with tears, but she could not understand how her body produced them still. She was so exhausted, so frustrated, so hurt, and with a sudden burst like a gust of wind through her, she wished for Haemon to return. He would listen, he would understand, and if he believed her… Damian could live.

‡‡‡

She stumbled back several paces with the force of his hand on her shoulder, reminding her of her mistake –as though she could overlook it. There was nothing more humiliating or degrading than receiving a nudge for every error she made when she could not touch him unless he allowed it because she could never outmaneuver, overpower, or outpace him. Already she felt like an animal chasing its tail, becoming weary and out of breath from her own exertions, while he had barely moved. Haemon's chestnut eyes were darker and harder with concentration, ever a predator even when sparring with his weak, female companion. She glared at him from beneath her lashes, the mismatched gaze searing with insult, but he was unaffected by its burn. Aurora should never have consented to this, but with their newly consummated relationship, she had foolishly assumed it would be different. She had seen a more benevolent side to her betrothed who was becoming less a wall than a prism capable of assuming so many faces and levels and sides and angles that she could never anticipate the combination that would meet her in the morning, afternoon, or night. They had lingered around Lovisa longer than they should have with Haemon's excuses about the ground drying and the possible return of the rain, but Aurora held her own suspicions as to why he delayed. Moreover, she couldn't believe that she had yielded to him each night with no comment or complaint about their "marriage" which had been consummated before it was sanctioned. Here they were: feigning husband and wife and sparring in the foothills of the mountains where they had decided to make their camp.

"Come on," he prodded, less encouraging than impatient, and her lips turned down in a frown.

_I can't!_ her mind retorted hotly, but she wouldn't speak the complaint aloud.

Already their time fleeing from Barion toward Latium had shown her that she was stronger than she knew. As Haemon had foretold, the sore ache was fading with each new day, and she could feel the muscles in her legs and back growing stronger. But mentally… she still felt weak compared to him. How could he hold so much and stand so tall? They had not spoken more about his past since that night, but she hadn't quite known how to press for answers without angering him. No matter the man who had bedded her nights ago, she was wary of this warrior's boundaries. She hadn't yet mapped out his limitations in her mind, and so she treaded softly in most areas to be sure she stayed on level ground. She couldn't risk angering him when she was already such a disappointment. She feared he would grow tired and abandon her like all the others who had sifted through her life. Atlan had been the only constant since her childhood, and now he was gone. She had nothing. Nothing but Haemon, and she was terrified more than she would acknowledge by how the thought of losing him gutted her insides. She was wholly dependent on him, and suppose he only kept her around so long as she was of use to him –in navigating him through these lands or as a companion to his bed… What else could she offer him?

"Aurora," he snapped to regain her attention, and her gaze pinned him from where it had veered to the side with her thoughts.

The anger receded to simmer in the base of her mind for she was more distracted by her nagging thoughts. She lost the motivation to practice and prove her worth to him, but she was sure he would be angry if she retreated. Her only option was to charge him and hope for leniency and maybe –if the gods were smiling on her- maybe he would end this embarrassment. She assessed his brawn stacked before her in search of a weakness but knew there was none. Her fingers nervously rearranged the hilt of the dagger in her hand. Only a man sure of his abilities and her limitations would arm her and encourage her to spar with him, or perhaps he knew she didn't have the courage to truly hurt him. She pursed her lips, glimpsing at his dark eyes, and dove forward. Her swing was fluid, slicing through the air, for he had already moved, and she quickly rebounded with her hand aiming for another attack. She swung, and he evaded: the same fruitless efforts were souring and making her lose her tact. Her movements were growing harsher and less aimed. She didn't care. Without warning, he caught her wrist, twisted her arm, and jerked her hand behind her back. The pain twisted up through her wrist and elbow to her shoulder, and she cried out and lost her footing, stumbling back into him where she added her weight to his hold on her and clenched her eyes shut. He could empower her one moment and strip her down the next. She was bare and breathing haggardly and gritting her teeth to withhold the sharp pain like he might break her wrist or take her arm.

"I can't always look over my shoulder to guard you," he said, low and even at her ear, and she winced as his hot breath rushed across her cheek though he held her still. He seemed to wait for the words to land as if he could watch them weave through her blonde head, and at length, he stole the dagger from her and released her.

Once her arm was returned to her, she rubbed idly at her sore wrist where his grip has left the skin pinkish and continued up the length of her arm to her shoulder. The muscles ached, but it was faint without his grip to encourage it. More sore was her pride since she knew she had lost control of herself and likely attacked her betrothed like a crazed woman. Paling and wincing, she glanced at Haemon from the corner of her eyes and discovered him considering his own injury. A thin, slight wisp rose on his forearm lined with blood, though it was scarcely more than a scratch, but her attention perked up when she understood she had been the cause. She had touched him!

He grumbled something indecipherable under his breath and dismissively released his arm to his side, and only then he noticed her mismatched eyes attached him. He frowned though she wasn't sure whether he was annoyed she had succeeded or if he were aggravated by the flicker of victory in her eyes.

Never one to let her gloat and waddle around with bloated confidence, he pricked her prime mood with one, derisive comment, "You need more than luck."

"Perhaps we shouldn't practice with weapons," she said, hinting that she was capable of more but restraining herself for his benefit. It was a laughably poor attempt to protect what little dignity she had left.

"When the time comes," he rejoined and held up the dagger between them, "you'll be armed. You should be accustomed to the feel. You can never hesitate."

"Even with you?" the question chirped from lips, and only upon hearing it did she worry about its connotations.

It seemed odd to reference any relation between them when she didn't entirely feel it had been knit. They were betrothed by an agreement that could very well have disintegrated the moment Savas betrayed them. They were fleeing for Samnium in hopes the king would offer them asylum. Though they had recently discovered some new ground to tread upon, a successful conversation between them was rare if not a battle in itself. She did not love him, but she didn't hate him either. She felt like she were hanging in the air from a leap of faith and waiting to see what if anything would catch her.

Smirking arrogantly as he sometimes could, he glanced at the scratch on his arm and remarked, "It takes far more than this to hurt me."

Suddenly the memory of his skin scattered with scars flitted through her mind, and her empty fingers twitched to remember the uneven texture that had intrigued and repulsed her. Even more compelling to her were the scars she couldn't see or touch from a past wrought with loss and pain like her own. Surely that was where they should begin building the bridge between them. Yet again she wondered about the nagging unanswered questions concerning his youth, but Haemon had abandoned her to her silent musings to attend to the meat roasting on the fire. He rotated the rods to let the meat char on another side, the fat and skin boiling and spitting and hissing, and he assumed his usual seat at one end of the fire while she helped herself to the other.

She drew her cloak about her and was grateful for the heavy woolen peasant robes Haemon had bought for her. They were poorly fashioned, of coarse material, but they were warm. She discovered her definition of comfort expanding with every night they spent in the wilderness, and Haemon was the more sparse. Though he had added another layer of cloth draped about him to keep him warm, he was otherwise mostly the same. She couldn't understand how he adjusted to the cold or how he had managed their money so well. She had never anticipated a crown prince to have the ability to barter for shelter, food, clothing, and more without a blunder to be noticed. How many were capable of that and to do so with his unapologetic determination? Did nothing scare him or daunt him? His courage was contagious, and she was reticent to admit she had no dreams, no nightmares, no terrors while sleeping at his side in Lovisa. That was a rare feat, and she preferred to blame it on her severe exhaustion or their room away from the woods rather than his proximity. Still, she wondered whether her sleepless nights would resume now that they were in the forest and without a bed to coral them… Would he try to touch her here –tonight? The thought made her skin prick to attention as though excited by the possibility, and she chastised herself, feeling her cheeks flush subtly and her stomach twist with nerves. Perhaps she was becoming as mercurial as him –capable of loathing him one moment and yearning for him the next.

"How far is the High Pass?" he wondered idly, leaned back, and rested an arm on his knee.

Aurora's chin bobbed parallel to the ground, skewering him with a sudden burst of attention thrown his way, and she ebbed slightly and looked toward the fire as she realized the neutrality of his question. "Four or five days' ride," she answered. "Perhaps longer depending on the weather and the trail."

"What do you know of Samnium's lands?"

"Little," she confessed. "I was taught about my lands when I was young, but I suppose my father never thought it necessary to teach his youngest daughter about those territories outside our borders. I doubt he ever anticipated I would be forced to flee…" She chewed unconsciously on her lower lip, remembered her mother's reprimanding when she was child for this quirk, and quickly released her lip. Still, the thoughts filtered through her mind, sifting back and forth until she wondered, "Do you think we'll make it to Samnium?"

"Yes," Haemon answered immediately, but his arrogant answer sounded hollow to her. Men were always indomitable until they were defeated.

"Savas will search everywhere for us. He won't stop 'til he's found us."

"He won't expect us to make for Samnium. He'll underestimate us and will not catch us nor know where we've gone until my army is marching from Alba Longa."

"You plan to fight him?" she asked, unable to mask her surprise. His bold statements after her bedded her had been dismissed as pillow talk, and she couldn't anticipate the jolt of nerves as he repeated them in the light of day.

His chestnut eyes glanced up from the fire to look at her, and he smirked briefly. "He deceived and tried to kill me… Yes, I will march and crush him, and I have the benefit of holding the rightful heir."

She blinked uncertainly, knowing what he was promising and somehow confused by it. Was this his purpose in keeping her safe –so that he might claim the Apulian throne by her name and extend his family's power? A flush of anger swept through her, yet she couldn't voice it. It made her sick to think of her life spent as a pawn for other men's fortunes.

_I am the living child of Lycaon, the granddaughter of Gallad, the lost heir to the Apulian throne!_

She'd lived in the shadows of the forests like that scared little girl who had watched her family die for Savas' greed, but now… now she was the queen. That was her destiny, and she would not surrender it to this bastard prince! Her teeth gritted as the thoughts raced through her, each more persuasive than the last, and she nearly pounced to her feet and denounced him. But she needed him as much as he needed her. Her time would come. Her chance would come, and she wouldn't hesitate. She kept her tongue still and eased her chin toward her chest, letting her mismatched eyes watch the flames lick at the impending darkness. Night would fall soon, and then dawn would come.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Happy New Year my lovelies! SURPRISE! Were you shocked? Was it on purpose? What's going to happen to Damina? Oooohhhhh I'm so excited to reveal something about our mysterious blacksmith in the next chapter :) Hope you all are as enthusiastic as I am!

Thanks to AmyLNelson and klandgraf2007 as always for the sweet reviews!

Amy: The climax! Ok I think it's climactic. It's sort of on-going. There will be much more revealed in the next chapter :) Ahhh I'm glad you think I'm creative and not crazy. I swear I have to map out the story chapter by chapter before starting to write it or else I know I'll get confused or forget something! Hopefully I surprised you though :) And of course the weird tense relationship between Aurora and Haemon continues... hehe! Awww I'm so happy you got the job placement in Italy! You'll have to enjoy the pasta, museums, and men for me ;) I'm still sick unfortunately, but hopefully this chapter didn't suffer as a result. Let me know what you think! xoxo

klandgraf: You kill me always reviewing each chapter! You're such a sweetheart :) I'm kinda glad to leave you a bit speechless with the last chapter about Haemon and Aurora "finding" some common ground together haha That's always my key in life, and I feel like no one is ever as intense and awesome as Arwa and Maximus were hahaha Isn't that horrible to admit? Damian is a good guy definitely, but he is funny how he kinda tries to tell Iliana what to do for her own good. It's all for a good cause, but it seems like he might have ruined it all with this chapter! Or maybe Iliana ruined it all with her impatience and nerves and irrational decisions, but I think as woman we've all been there! It seemed like a good idea at the time haha And yes, now that Atlan's been captured, no one will know about Haemon until/if Ascanius arrives home! duh duh duh! Hope you made some popcorn and ate it haha That's adorable :) Thanks so much for the review, and I hope you liked this chapter! xoxo


	15. Here Lies The Truth

Chapter 15  
"Here Lies The Truth"

"Not now, Iliana. I will deal with you later," Aeneas snapped coolly over his shoulder while striding through the corridors of his home. Dawn had broke. A new day was brimming, but she never knew daylight could be so dark.

"Please, Father," she begged, as mute as she had been to Damian and her brother but insistent to speak or scream if need be, and chased after him. "I need to speak with you."

"Later!"

"No!" she retaliated with a sudden rush of anger making her flush. Her throat burned like the fires of Hades and fed her growing exasperation. She wouldn't be overlooked! Steeling herself, she warned, "I won't let you kill him."

"He tried to slit your throat, Iliana! He will be punished!"

"It was my fault! Please…" Her irritation and impotence manifested in the sting of tears lining up along her lashes. Her raw throat caught, and she grabbed his hand, forcing him to look at her and to acknowledge that she mattered in all of this. "Please, Papa."

Aeneas ceased his pace but kept his back to her, stiff and uncomfortable to hear the name she had called him as a child. Of all Myrina's children, she was the first to love him and take him as her own with those plump little fingers grasping to his hand and large eyes looking to him for protection and guidance. Given his record, he had never wanted for a daughter, thinking the gods would show their sense of humor with the manner of woman she would become, and yet through a cruel jest of fate, he had been given a beautiful, wounded little girl. He would kill anyone who so much as spoke against her. He would fight the gods if it meant protecting his only daughter.

"He loves me," she whispered, gripping tighter to his hand and feeling her lips tremble like her features contorting when he would not look at her. Drawing an uneasy breath, she tried to calm her racing nerves and explain in a trembling voice, "He told me he planned to ask you for my hand, and when he did not, I was impatient. I was nervous. I thought he had changed his mind, and I snuck out to see him and speak with him… I know better than to sneak up on a sleeping man. It is all my fault—"

"Iliana," Aeneas interrupted and at last turned to her revealing his face which silenced her instantly. Never had she seen the handsome features cut with such severity, like marble beautiful, fixed, and cold. His wrath extended far beyond the limits she had known, and he barely kept his tone or face stable when he said, "No blacksmith –no _innocent_ man sleeps with a dagger in his bed."

His thoughts strayed to Nereus' account from the morning…

"_Nothing! He said nothing at all!" His son's blue eyes were sharp enough to cut a man down, his hands were bloodied, and he couldn't bear the stillness of sitting when his fury swarmed inside him like pests feeding on his guilt for not protecting his sister. "No matter what I did, no matter what I threatened, no matter how I made him look death in the face, he did nothing!"_

"He's dangerous," Aeneas decided, both horrified and suspicious of this realization. No normal civilian handled an interrogation so stoically, so calmly. Aeneas shuddered to think he let this man into their community, accepted him as one of their own, and allowed him in his home and near his family. There was much more to this blacksmith. Pale and hoarse, he knew, "He would have killed you."

"Let me speak to him," Iliana pressed as if immune to her father's trepidation, but she knew Damian. He was a good man who had done nothing wrong. Couldn't they see she was all to blame? Let them cast her with scourges, but first let her clear his name. "He'll speak to me. He'll tell me the truth. This is all a horrible misunderstanding. Please. Please."

Ignoring her blind loyalty to the man who had threatened her life and mangled her beauty, Aeneas turned and strode out the door. He would decide Damian's fate and end this matter.

Without hesitation, Iliana was at his heels once more, desperate to make him believe, and she suddenly snapped, "You're swayed by his station. You don't think him worthy. Mother would not judge him!"

Her blow met its mark for Aeneas spun on his heel, drawing his full height above her, and bellowed, "The man put a knife to your throat and cauterized the wound like an animal!" His nostrils flared, and his blue eyes were electric with rage, sparking and teeming as if waiting to implode. "If he loved you, he would never hurt you!"

"He tried to help me," she countered, aware how meek and unsure her voice sounded against her father's outburst. She tried to gather her courage, and her response grew stronger with every word, "He was afraid he had cut too deep. He wouldn't hurt me –not intentionally!"

"Enough!" he snarled, turned his face away, and lifted a hand to quiet her. When he faced her again, his eyes speared her as he threatened, "Go inside, or by the gods I will drag you there, tie you to your bed, and lock you away!"

That tone demolished any objection Iliana could voice, and her tongue was still and cowardly for she said nothing even as Aeneas lingered, facing her, struggling to contain his rage. Seeing that she wouldn't retort this time, he turned and left her.

‡‡‡

It was four days' ride from Lovisa to Rytilä, the mountain town which was the final stop between Apulia and Samnium and the entrance to the High Pass. Rytilä was as much a fortress as a town, and along its streets merchants and soldiers alike strolled within the walls. A contingent of soldiers were constantly assigned as stewards to the outpost to guard the border and warn Barion of attack should troops march from Samnium as they often had during the tumultuous history between the two lands. It was only in recent decades since the unspoken cease-fire that the High Pass was safe for merchants and travelers once again. Since its birth, Rytilä flourished in the same manner that Lovisa had, with entertainment, food, and drink for the soldiers, merchants, and travelers who passed through its gates. The market likewise was large and teeming with activity in the afternoon that Haemon and Aurora arrived. While he questioned the townspeople about lodging, Aurora attempted as best she could to become invisible. Every glimpse of a soldier in uniform turned her blood cold, though she could scarcely see anything for how low the hood of her cloak draped over her brow, and she could only identity their rank by the shin guards above their sandals. She kept close to the horse, leaning slightly against its barrel chest, but in the time spent alongside its new companions, it had become accustomed if not friendly toward them. It didn't ease away but bowed its large head and absently tossed its mane. Haemon patted its neck and drew his hand along the short fur while still engaged in his conversation with a potter who had come to market to sell his work.

"The start of fall is a busy time for our city," the potter remarked to Haemon, echoing sentiments from the other townspeople. It was becoming increasingly apparent that lodging was a sparse commodity during this season. "The last stragglers from summer are trying to outrun the rains."

"There must be something," Haemon pressed, proving he wouldn't be discouraged or dismissed from the potter's stand so easily.

The man glanced about them and warned, "You're blocking my stand."

"Answer my question, and I'll be on my way," the Prince countered.

Huffing irritably, the potter rearranged some of his clay pieces on the table and said, "I don't know of any room that has not already been filled—"

"You've barely considered it," Haemon interrupted, still planted in front of the man's table.

Aurora could feel the tension crackling between the two men but seemed the only one in attendance to this conversation who was unnerved by it. She gave her nervous hands an outlet by patting the horse's neck and rubbing at its fur, but she dropped her hand a moment later when she accidentally met Haemon's, her pinky touching his thumb. They hadn't touched or kissed since Lovisa –not unless riding together, and already feeling him between her arms for those moments was enough to rouse her memories and worst intentions. Her intuition told her what awaited her inside the lodging Haemon would find for them, and her stomach was knotted with nerves, impatience, and excitement. The latter of these she pointedly pretended not to notice, but her body had assumed an agenda of its own. Like an animal rousing from a long sleep, it was nipping for something to eat.

"There may be something," the potter muttered discontentedly, and Haemon stepped forward, forcing the man to continue. "There's a wine maker, Balbus, who has a spare room. He's not rented it to strangers since before the last war, but you may be able to convince him. You'll find his home up ahead on the left."

"Thank you," Haemon replied stiffly though he seemed to mean something else, and he grasped the reigns and guided the horse in the direction the potter pointed with Aurora keeping close for safe measure. She kept her gaze on Haemon's feet peeking out from the bottom of his heavy cloak because she did not dare to lift her head and possibly reveal her features. It was doubtful any of these peasants or soldiers would know her face, as Haemon had suggested earlier in their journey, but she was mistrustful and suspicious of all those around her. Any hand could wield the dagger that struck them both down. It was better to be cautious than unconcerned.

Haemon led them up along the street that was the largest offshoot from the market square, pausing from time to time to consider the houses lining the road. He asked a few wandering peasants about Balbus and was shown the way to the wine maker's home. It was a relatively large residence with two floors which was unusual to find in these mountain cities, but Rytilä was undoubtedly the most prosperous with residents eager to exploit their riches.

Haemon pushed on the door only to discover it locked and frowned. Without hesitation, he knocked loudly on the door, and both waited but heard nothing above the ruckus of the market. His jaw set with aggravation, and he knocked again, heavier, thinking the man couldn't hear him. Again, there was no answer. Grumbling under his breath, he wondered if the potter hadn't lied to be rid of him. Perhaps the wine maker was out selling his product, but a final time, Haemon beat on the door, nearly making it shudder beneath his fist.

"Enough! Enough!" a voice called back, and the Prince held his fist before it could hit the door again. They heard a bolt slide, and the door cracked open enough to reveal a sliver of a middle-aged man's face and hastily applied robes. By his worn and drowsy expression, it seemed they had awoken him, even if it were past noon. "The dead in Hades can hear you!" he grouched and considered Haemon through glossy blue eyes.

"Are you Balbus?"

"Yes. What is it you want, aside from disturbing a man's sleep?" The ends of his words slurred together, hinting that he had enjoyed much of his own product.

"We're travelers," Haemon answered, "from the south. We need lodging to rest before crossing the High Pass. I was told you have a room."

"I don't like strangers in my home," Balbus said with a dense frown. "Be on your way."

He began to close the door, but Haemon's hand on the door hindered him from shutting it. "I have my wife with me," the Prince continued. "We bring no trouble. We only need a warm bed for the night and a meal. I have money to pay you."

"Are you deaf?" the man croaked irritably. "There's no room for you or your wife here. Go on!"

Still, Haemon's strength kept the door from shutting, and Aurora could see it trembling between their struggle and inhaled anxiously. So they would sleep on the cold, hard ground again…

"I'll call the guards!" Balbus warned.

"Please," Aurora chirped up before she could stop herself, but the threat of the soldiers coming chilled her bones.

Too late did she realize Haemon had overpowered the man, and the door had opened wide enough that Balbus was revealed fully and peering distrustfully at her.

"Everyone else has turned us away," she continued softly, keeping her head bowed so that the shadow of her hood cast over her face. "Would you force a woman to sleep in the cold?"

Balbus' attention sought her out, and he glimpsed around Haemon's brawn to the small figure bundled up in too large a cloak. "I don't take in strangers," he slurred again. "Too many secrets. Too much trouble."

"We only need a room for the night," Haemon countered and stepped in front of Aurora, shielding her away from Balbus' prying eyes. Perhaps because female travelers were not so common, she had a way of drawing unwanted attention which aggravated the Prince. She should never have spoken. "We'll cause you no trouble."

Balbus snorted through his nose and glimpsed up at Haemon. "Let me see her face."

"You've no right to look upon my wife," he retorted, tone lowering to that dangerously cool and low level that usually threw men off.

"What are you hiding?" the wine maker wondered and arched his brow arrogantly.

"Nothing," he grumbled. "I'm a jealous man."

"Jealous or not, I need to know who wishes to stay in my home. Secrets are trouble…"

"You're a drunken fool," Haemon growled suddenly, realizing the man had latched onto the one concession he couldn't allow. "Keep your room. We'll find lodging elsewhere."

Balbus chuckled and grinned with victorious conceit now that Haemon was withdrawing. "Perhaps you can sleep alongside the horses!"

The Prince shot the man a sharp glare that silenced his tongue, but he gathered the reigns and stepped aside to head toward the market once more. He hadn't asked every citizen. There may be a possibility he had overlooked. Yet, something drew his attention behind him, and he turned in time to see Aurora drawing back her hood so that her straw blonde hair glinted in the afternoon light and her pale features were revealed. Unconsciously, Haemon reached for the dagger tucked away at his waist and glanced about them to be sure no soldiers were within sight. What was she doing?

"Please," Aurora repeated, aware that her hands were trembling and itching to draw her hood once more, but she wouldn't let them be denied for so simple a reason when there was nothing else. If Haemon were right, this man would know nothing of her aside from that she was Haemon's wife.

Balbus' face textured in a look Aurora had feared, and he stepped across the threshold to better see the woman. His attention lingered on her eyes, glimpsing back and forth between the mismatched orbs, and suddenly he dropped to his knees, nearly falling onto his hands as well for the drunkenness inhibiting him. "Princess," he gasped and cowered before her, "forgive me! I did not know."

"Stand up," Aurora snapped sharply, fearful that others would notice the man bowing before her.

Balbus grasped onto the frame of the door and tried to hurry to his feet, almost tumbling again but holding himself steady. He would not raise his head, and in contrast, Aurora's spine lengthened, her shoulders flattened, and she gazed down upon him and assumed an air fit for a queen.

"Will you turn me away now?" she questioned icily, and her eyes hardened.

The tone stole the color from Balbus' pasty expression, and he stuttered, "N-no, My Lady. Please! It would be an honor to house and serve you. You are welcome so long as you wish."

"I am travelling in secret," Aurora continued and stepped forward into the doorway where Balbus hurriedly backed away to be clear of her path. Her gaze followed him though he didn't dare to meet it. "I trust you'll keep your tongue silent so long as you enjoy keeping it."

"Of course," Balbus swore hoarsely and cleared his throat.

Aurora appraised the space without a word, taking into account the dim lighting for the drapes were drawn across the windows and only a few candles were lit. "Where is my room?"

"Up the stairs, My Lady," the man said and started toward that direction. "Allow me to show you—"

"That won't be necessary," she intervened. "Where is your wife?"

"Dead. It is only me…"

"Very well," she brushed aside more casually than she cared to, but years in the palace had taught her how to behave like royalty even if she despised it. "Take my horse to stable and do not bother me until dinner is prepared."

Balbus lingered, looking fraught at the idea of the Princess wandering his home while he attended to these tasks, but he was wise enough to seal his lips. Their new king was not so benevolent as his predecessor, and he had heard stories of this princess and the power she held. He feared her more than he could justify, and he only knew to obey her and hope she would leave him be. What if she chose to curse him? He could feel the chill of those haunted eyes like death creeping upon him…

"Now," she said brusquely, and her command may as well have been a whip for the effect it had on the man. He hurried out the door and took the reigns from Haemon who then followed Aurora into the home.

His chestnut eyes were mesmerized watching her assume such a powerful, lofty appearance, ordering the man about as if he were no more than a pest to her. He had seen glimpses of this woman, he had known she was hidden away, and he looked upon her with simultaneous awe and attraction. Aurora turned to him, and immediately her shoulders dropped with a swift exhale. The mask was swept away, revealing the uncertainty in her eyes, as her hands wrung before her.

"I told you they would recognize me," she muttered and pinched her brow. "Do you think he will tell anyone?"

"No," Haemon admitted earnestly, disappointed, and wished that assertive princess had lingered a moment longer for him. "You intimidate him."

She shook her head somewhat and thought aloud, "Peasants will always gossip."

"He won't –not until you've gone."

_It's too late to hide_, her mind pointed out, and she turned from Haemon and took up one of the candles from the table.

"We should find our room before he returns," she decided and gathered the edge of her skirt in one hand to keep her from tripping on its length as she alighted the stairs. Haemon followed after her with their packs piled upon his broad shoulders, and she opened the first door she encountered, letting it swing open to reveal a sparse room with a bed, table, stool, and lamp. She used the candle to the light the wick of the tarnished oil lamp and watched it flicker to life. The untrimmed ends smoked but barely bothered her. She was only pleased they had a room away from the wilderness, and though revealing her identity made her stomach ache with fresh concerns, part of her was relieved to be treated with respect again.

Haemon unloaded the packs from his shoulders onto the table and untied his cloak as well. The room was dusty though tidy, and he held no reservations that the sheets and bed would be musty from lack of use. Still, it was better than sleeping on the ground, and he turned to see Aurora had placed the candle aside and removed her cloak. She was scanning the room briefly as well and drew back the drapes from the sole window so that some fresh afternoon light and air flowed into the space. With nothing more to occupy her, she looked to Haemon and felt her stomach drop at the darkness in his eyes. She knew that regard, and her heart was electrified, shuddering in her chest and racing as the blood warmed beneath her skin.

"He doesn't know who I am," the Prince commented softly.

"He probably thinks you're my guard," she said and felt her fingers curl around the coarse fabric of her skirt if only to keep them from shaking.

Haemon smirked wolfishly, sending a private flush into Aurora's cheeks before he even said, "Or that you've run away with your lover."

She dropped her chin to her chest for the thought mortified her, and she was blind to Haemon's approach though she felt his hand mold to her waist. Her head rose more eagerly than she had hoped, craning back to look up at him and was enlivened not intimidated by his proximity. He wouldn't hurt her –not unless she wanted him to, and her fingers twisted more tightly in the fabric until her knuckles turned white. His other hand circled her waist as well, and she searched his dark eyes for his next move, too timid to reach up for what she wanted and too hungry to hide the pleading look from her face. His nose brushed her own, and she held steady, closing her eyes prematurely and waiting for the spark of his lips on hers. In the darkness, she didn't see his gaze appraise her patient desire or the way his smirk twisted. All at once, he picked her up and tossed her back onto the bed, and she shrieked shortly with surprise as her eyes burst open to stare him grinning guiltily with amusement.

"We should keep up your act, Princess," he decided and removed the heavy fabric from draping around him.

She had caught herself on her elbows, and once more her chin rested on her chest with the lingering coyness that humbled her before him. But her eyes were heavy and watching him from beneath her lashes. His shirt slid from his torso and down his arms next, and then he unknotted the material wrapped low around his hips. It fell away, his naked body daunting and making her feverish with nerves. Her cheeks flamed, she swallowed dryly, and she couldn't keep a handle on her eyes which strayed from the safety of his face to explore the angles and lines of his flesh standing before her. She chewed on her lower lip, too mesmerized with what lay before her to think of her mother's chiding, and glanced at him impatiently when he didn't move. Her knees were pressed together, intensifying the expectant pulsing between her thighs. He hadn't touched her in days, not like in Lovisa. She wanted him to touch her again.

"You're not as shy and frightened as you pretend," he taunted, patient where she was sizzling.

How could she feel anything else when he was standing naked at the foot of her bed? She bit down harder on her lip, felt her knees knead together, and frowned anxiously. She wasn't accustomed to being teased and handled it poorly, almost receiving it as an insult. She huffed irritably through her nose and buried her fingers into the sheet.

"You know how to talk down to men," he continued in that low, raspy voice that sent chills huddling across her skin, and he watched her seething with a mixture of desire and frustration in front of him and fought away a smile as his game played out. "How to make them do what you want."

She sensed the challenge laid out for her and faltered with her heavy tongue, hiding deeper into her sunken shoulders. _I'm not that brave_, her mind retorted with a rush of chilling apprehension. She wanted to look away from his eyes and conceal her torrid thoughts, but those dark depths grasped on deep inside her and did not let go. Hot, agitated breaths shuddered in and out her mouth, and she slowly planted one hand after the other behind her hips and pushed herself to sit up. Her arms were shaking like they might collapse if she placed too much of her weight in them, and her legs curled in toward her. He followed her every movement, and her heart thumped uneasily inside her hollow chest. She placed her hips over her heels, rose up onto her knees, and found herself close enough to him she could reach out and touch him. But she didn't want to extend so far, her elbows felt glued to her chest, and she reluctantly edged her knees closer to him until she knelt at the edge of the bed in front of him. A small smile had snuck into his lips, framed by his dark beard, but she hadn't looked away from his eyes to notice. Drawing closer to him, seeing the expectation build in his gaze, she unearthed her courage and felt empowered. Maybe she could be brave, braver than she knew. Bolstered by this thought, her hands circled his neck, her elbows spread across his shoulders, she pulled on him slightly, and she stretched up to meet his kiss. She was lost in the heat searing her tender skin, his beard scratching her cheeks, his palms kneading into her backside, and she submitted immediately when he pinned her beneath him back on the bed. Her boldness had been unleashed, and though she flushed still to know how she hungrily she clawed at him, she gripped at his neck, commanding his kiss, and circled her hips with a blind order beneath him. She wasn't sure how to translate the desire coursing through her into silent instructions for him, and before she knew it, he had rolled onto his back and planted her on top of him, giving her free reign to do as she pleased. She was at once flushing, timid, and eager, and she soon discovered there was one battle he would let her win.

‡‡‡

It had been four days since Damian's capture, and the blacksmith still lived. Each time he sought to declare his death, Aeneas saw his daughter's pale, torn face before him and spared Damian another day. What rush was there in dealing out death? It came to all soon enough, and it would give him no greater pleasure to execute the man and see Iliana despise him for all eternity. Every night now he found her crying, sobbing like a child in her bed, and the sense of guilt was more than he could bear. He had never been prepared for this sort of situation with his child. He knew how to raise men, answer their questions, coral their boisterous nature, and nudge them along. A young woman, however, was an enigma to him. Standing outside Iliana's door, hearing her sobs echo from inside, a fresh burn gripped his heart. He needed Myrina. She would know what to do and how to handle this situation. Bowing his head, the guilt spread through his limbs until they were numb with regret. What would Hector do to know Aeneas turned his eyes for a moment from their little girl? Probably skin him alive, and he thought he deserved such a fate. He should have kept a better watch on her. He should have known something dangerous was brewing. He had tried to speak with her, but she was too furious to see him or listen to his reason.

She would only offer the same cold threat, "If you kill him, I'll never forgive you."

Iliana was never one for violence or idle remarks. He had never seen her so distraught, angry, and depressed. He knew she would keep her word, and so on the fifth morning, he agreed to let her speak to Damian because he did not know what else he could do.

Her eyes were swollen and red from days spent crying, her skin was sallow, and her chestnut curls were untidy for she could not remember the last time she had them brushed. They were hidden beneath the thin veil she draped across her head, and her hands felt raw from how they wrung and tangled in the ends of the veil. Her father's concession washed her with relief, knowing that she would have the chance to find out the truth and speak on Damian's behalf. She could right her wrongs, but as her father guided her through the town, she was not immune to the gazes pinned on her. She had not emerged from the house since Damian's arrest, and everyone was eager to see the princess who had nearly been killed by the blacksmith. They looked sympathetic which worried Iliana because she knew how public opinion of Damian had swayed. Even if he were released, would he ever be rid of this black cloud? She cringed, feeling the sour guilt salt her wounds, and held the veil across her throat so none could see the bandage around her neck. Since it had happened, she couldn't bear to look at the wound. Each day the healer came to tend to it, she saw the repulsion in his face. She didn't want to look in a mirror and face what Damian had done to her.

They entered the building where the Albans stored the surplus from their harvest and where a small quarter had been converted to house criminals or war prisoners. A guard stood sentry at the entrance and bowed his head when Aeneas and Iliana approached. She had expected Nereus to accompany them as well, and his absence made her wonder if Aeneas had told anyone of his agreement with his daughter. She was sure Nereus would have talked Aeneas down from this path with his eloquence and reason, and she was abruptly glad her brother was missing.

"Open the door," Aeneas commanded, and the guard glimpsed at Iliana, face full of misgivings, before he did as he was told.

The guard passed Aeneas a torch who stepped inside first, and Iliana was the one to hesitate. Intuition struck deep within her. It told her to turn away, but she stared inside the dark confines lit only by the crackling torch her father carried, thought of Damian rotting away inside, and hurriedly stepped across the threshold. She had to save him.

Her nerves reached a peak of sizzling discomfort as she searched the barren room and finally followed her father's gaze to the man hunched over in one corner of the room. The sight of him nailed her feet to the floor when she so desperately wanted to turn and run. He was similarly undressed as he had been that night with only the material about his waist to shroud him. His skin was smeared with a mixture of ashes, dirt, and blood so that she couldn't see its natural shade. His head hung lax between his shoulders though his hands were tied behind his back, and she realized, her stomach turning, that the bandage around his wound had been torn away. The angry, red, blistered skin was as dirty as the rest of his skin, and the wound was festering, turning sallow with puss, and growing infected. He'd die from that alone, and her eyes pricked, feeling raw and sore. She wanted to cry for him, but she was drained.

"You have a visitor," Aeneas barked gruffly.

Damian's head slowly fell back, leaning against the wall behind him, and the blood fell hard as concrete into her feed when she saw his handsome face mangled by the untended broken nose. His face was swollen and bruised, almost unrecognizable, the blood dried and caked on his chin and neck. His dark eyes parted as much as they cold, spinning from Aeneas then to Iliana where they pierced her skin and stabbed her heart.

"How could you do this to him?" she whispered, and her throat jerked suddenly, pulling at her raw wound, and warned her she might be sick.

Before Aeneas could answer, Damian groused through a parched and dry throat, "Go."

She frowned heavily, hurt that he would want her to leave, but she couldn't abandon him. "I need to speak with you," she retorted and fought against the nausea coating the back of her throat, "alone."

"No," Aeneas said without hesitation. "I won't leave you alone with him."

"He can't hurt me," she growled. "He can barely lift his head. You said you would let me speak to him!"

"No."

"Father…" she said stiffly and turned her head to bury her wounded eyes into his profile. "Please leave."

He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes but couldn't face the emptiness in his daughter's face. "I'll give you a few moments," he warned, "and no more."

Iliana said nothing, and Aeneas handed her the torch and stepped outside where the door closed behind him. Now alone with Damian, she approached him and knelt at his side. His black eyes followed her, she heard his breath wheezing through his throat, but he didn't move or say anything. Her eyes burned as she drew closer, the light illuminating the extent of what he had endured, and she wanted to touch him but couldn't bear the thought she might misplace her hand and add to his pain.

"I'm so sorry," she gasped and shook her head. "This is all my fault."

"No," he muttered, voice oppressed by his broken nose and gravelly throat.

"I should have listened to you," she pressed. "I should have waited, but I couldn't… I never thought this would happen. I'm so sorry."

"I deserve this," he groaned. "I never meant to hurt you."

"I know. I know you would never hurt me."

"But I can only bring you pain."

"What are you saying? You don't know what you mean," she decided brusquely and nervously. "I'll have the healer come to see you. I'll have you released. I'll clear your name, and all will be well."

Damian closed his eyes and leaned his head further back against the wall. "You know it won't… I'm going to die, Iliana, and I don't want you to remember me like this."

"Don't say that!" She gritted her teeth and reached out to touch his cheek, careful that her fingers were no more than a brush on his skin. "I won't let them kill you."

He inhaled too deeply and coughed, heaving forward to clear his throat and chest of the oppression. He was breathless as he eased back, and he cringed and recoiled when his side touched the wall.

She had never seen him in so much pain, almost numb and dizzy from it. "I won't let them hurt you anymore, I swear it."

"We don't have much time," he commented and opened his eyes to see her again. "Now that you've come, I need to tell you something."

"Wait and tell me when you're stronger," she coaxed with blind hope and was worried he would strain himself speaking when he could barely breathe. She doubted they had fed or given him water often enough. She wanted to take him in her arms, heal him, protect him…

"No," he barked hoarsely. "Will you hold your tongue and listen to me for once!"

Her eyes widened contritely, reminded of her constant insubordinance and what it had cost both of them. "Yes. I'm sorry."

Gathering his breath and his strength, he admitted, "I never lied to you… but I did not tell you everything." He wet his lips and lifted his head to look directly at her. "I was raised as the son of a freed slave who worked in the stables at the palace in Sparta. My mother was a washerwoman for the royal family…

_He hid outside the sole window of their home, overhearing the tense and crude voices yelling back and forth. His mother was crying, his father bellowing like the very thunder of Zeus rumbling through the heavens, and he noticed his younger brother creeping up to join him. His fiery curls sprung up like flames in all directions, freckles scattered across his face, and large blue eyes stared at him. Damian placed a finger to his lips, signaling the boy to keep quiet like him, and pushed his black hair out of his face. It needed to be trimmed. He hated it. Amid their fiery hair and pale complexions, he was the black sheep, but he never wanted to be. They'd never spoken of it –not until he was six and the differences were too obvious to overlook any longer._

"_I've raised him like my own!" his father's voice poured out of the small window. "Everyone has laughed at me while I've provided for another man's bastard!"_

"_Please," his mother sobbed, and he felt his gut twist as his young mind sensed some unseen threat. He couldn't understand. They were a family._

"_I can't do this any more! I won't!"_

"He confronted my mother to discover the truth," Damian continued slowly, pausing from time to time to catch his breath, "and sold me because he could not bear the shame of raising someone's bastard." Swallowing, he seemed to hesitate before he continued, "Particularly not when that man is the king."

"I don't want to hear this," Iliana blurted out, pale and trembling.

"You need to hear it," he countered and flashed his heavy eyes at her with a burst of aggravation. His head bowed toward his chest for it felt too heavy to hold up so long, but his voice wouldn't stop even as it waned, hoarse and dry, at times. He kept on, "He made a habit of collecting beautiful women to wait on him. My mother was only another trophy for him, regardless that she was married…

_He was jostled by the dense crowd forming and lining the streets. Growling under his breath, he struck out with his elbows in all directions, trying to clear a space for his willowy body to fit, but a man pushed him back, grumbling, "Watch it, boy."_

_Damian tumbled back onto his backside and felt someone else step on his hand. He punched the man's leg, groaning in pain, and when he hand was free, he scrambled to his feet and pushed his way through the crowd to find a better place. Craning his head back, he couldn't see over the tall shoulders shrouding the road from his path, and he searched for something to bolster him up. His black eyes landed on an awning protruding over a merchant's stand, and without hesitation, he jumped up on a barrel near the stand and reached for the edge of the wood._

"_What do you think you're doing?" the merchant stammered and grabbed onto Damian's tunic, pulling even as he clung onto the edge._

_Damian kicked, hitting the man in his chin, and the merchant sputtered, "You little bastard! Get down from there!"_

_Damian kept kicking, this time hoisting himself up, and his arms shook with the effort to hold him steady in the air. The trumpets called out, drums sounded near, and he looked toward the curve in the road where the troops were processing victoriously through the streets. The King had left for war in Troy when Damian was just a babe, and now, over ten years later, he had returned. _

_The merchant pulled on Damian's legs, and the boy almost lost his grip. He kicked again, groaning as his arms burned and his sweaty palms threatened to give out. The wood buried into his stomach, and he tried to balance himself._

"_Let me see," he begged under his breath, and his black eyes searched and searched until finally the King's chariot rounded the corner. The crowd was swept up in a roar of praise, arms thrown overhead, and gifts and flowers tossed into the street for the King. His helmet was beneath his arm, and even through the grey, Damian could make out his thick, black hair falling down past his shoulders. His dark eyes oscillated from side to side to drink in the sight of his countrymen celebrating his return, and his tanned skin glistened with sweat from beneath his armor. At his side, his young wife Helen didn't restrain her tears, sobbing even as her husband celebrated, but Damian barely noticed her. The whole of his attention was on this man –this king- this stranger. His father. The King rode through the crowds, smiling and waving, but not once did his gaze land on Damian. He didn't know that his bastard son existed, flourished, and pained in his absence. A sudden, overwhelming desire washed over Damian as he stared at this man: he would force the King to acknowledge him even if it were only a glimpse._

_All at once, he went flailing backwards and landed on the dirt ground with a cry of pain. The breath was knocked out of him, the dust pricked his eyes, and the merchant kicked him in the side growling, "Go on! Get out of here, you son of a bitch!"_

_Damian rushed to his feet, holding to his wounded side with both hands, one still red and pulsing from the man who had stepped on it. He stuck his tongue out at the merchant who gathered up his robes and looked like he'd chase him off. Before he could, Damian went running down an alley between homes and hurrying back toward the forge. The blacksmith would beat him for sneaking away, but he didn't care. He knew now what he was meant to do._

"I needed him to know who I was, and so when I grew old enough, I left the blacksmith and joined Sparta's soldiers," Damian kept up the story, clearing his hoarse throat and trying to keep his voice intelligible. "It was a brutal initiation especially for a nameless bastard like me…"

"_The only use we'd have for you is to die at the front of the lines_," _one of the soldiers sneered. They'd become arrogant and drunk on their pride since returning from war. They had no place for him, but Damian had nothing else to grasp onto in his life. Even sprawled in the dirt, victim to their blows and kicks, teeth bloodstained and lip cut open, he pushed himself onto his hands and knees so that he could stand once more. Another kicked landed in his ribs and sent him toppling over onto his side, curled up and cringing as he waited for the fire of the blow to burn away. He forced his eyes open, inhaling the dirt into his lungs, and tried to stand again. He was bruised and battered and sore._

"_Go home," the soldier said for the second time that week and motioned for the soldiers to stand down for the moment. Damian had faced the same harassment every time he came around and tried to enlist. Four times thus far, and Damian had no intention of there being a fifth. He couldn't stand to stagger back to the forge where the blacksmith would beat him too for leaving._

_This was his last chance. He had nothing else. He stumbled to his feet, swaying uneasily as his wounded body tried to gain its bearings, and stared into the soldier's face. A smirk drew the man's lips back, and without thinking, Damian spat in his face, the bloody gob staining his cheek, and grinned. The soldier lunged at him, growling out curses, and both went tumbling onto the ground. Bare fists collided again and again, cracking into each other, and they wrestled for the advantage. Something broke, and Damian put his hands around the soldier's throat, ready and willing to kill for what he wanted. Another hand gripped him by the scruff of his tunic and threw him back. They kicked him, huddling around him, and he was sure this time they'd kill him. At least he would honor his father, the victorious warring king, by dying fighting._

"_That's enough!" a harsh voice interrupted and ripped one soldier after another off of him. The soldiers saluted him, and by his uniform, Damian could guess he was high-ranking. Frowning, the general wondered, "Can you stand?"_

_Damian groaned and rolled onto his side, forcing his knees and hands under him. One foot was planted, but he struggled to heave his body up and get the other under him too. At length, he succeeded and stood swaying and uneasy before the general who appraised him with a heavy scowl._

"_What's your name?"_

"_Damian," he answered and swallowed down a mouthful of blood._

"_Son of…?" the general pressed._

_Gritting his sore teeth together, he admitted, "No one."_

"_I see," the man muttered and eased his weight over one leg. "You want to be a soldier of Sparta?"_

"_Yes."_

"_It is not for the weak," he warned._

_Bloodied and bruised, Damian countered, "I'm not weak."_

"_You can take a punch," the general seemed to agree, "but soldiers need to know how to fight too."_

"_I want to fight."_

"_Why?"_

_His black eyes searched the ground, and he wiped away the blood from his broken brow so that he could see clearly. "I don't have anything else…"_

_The general hesitated, looking at Damian poised to collapse in front of him, and decided, "Iunius, take him to the armory to pick up his sword and armor."_

"He said that I'd begin training the next day, and I did," Damian recounted, and his throat hurt so much it felt raw and blistered like his side. He ignored it because all that mattered was telling her this even if he saw the tears streaming down her cheeks like he were burning her all over again. "During that time, I learned of the bounty on your family's heads…

_He guided the horse along the rocky precipice, gazing out at the Aegean to his left. It had been more than a year since he had deserted Sparta's ranks to chase after his own glory. Numerous soldiers had tried and failed to find the last of the Kings of Troy, Prince Aeneas who would now be King of Dardania and Myrina, Hector's widow who would be Queen of Troy since no other siblings of the Crown Prince had survived or escaped captivity. The first soldiers to search for them had looked east of Troy in Assyria and further still but found nothing. Other men looked north or south of the conquered lands, following the Aegean, but still, there was nothing. Rumors had spread in the silent years that followed Troy's fall that the remnants of the royal family had died at sea while attempting to escape, but a fascination with their legacy remained. The legend of Troy's lost sons and daughters lived on. The Spartan King's victory would never be complete until all those of royal blood from Troy were killed or captured._

_Damian sought to end this by finding them himself though he was neither a tracker nor a seasoned soldier. What he did hold that no others did was blind determination. His only reason for meeting the dawn each day was to be recognized one day by the King. He would find Troy's heirs, he would find their trail, he would succeed where other men had failed, and he would finish what his father had begun so that the King would look at him not out of spite but with pride. It was death to desert Sparta's army, but he held no real loyalty to the soldiers around him. His one desire was to train and learn so that he could ride west where none had ventured. They thought it too far and impossible a journey. He knew he would likely find nothing, but he was both driven and blinded by his past. Something deep inside him was calling him West, and so he had ridden and ridden and ridden for more than a year until the people stopped speaking Greek –until nothing was familiar. He kept to the coast because he assumed if the Trojans had reached the shore, they wouldn't have made it much farther inland. He kept riding south. The journey was long and arduous and had gone on too long. By this time, Damian was certain he had failed, but only death and defeat awaited him in Sparta. So he kept riding…_

_One day, he was trading with merchants in a distant market when he heard the impossible: two men speaking an old dialect of Greek. Damian was so stunned by what he heard, he had traveled so long with nothing to reward him, that he almost mistook the sound for a trick of his own mind. Yet there they were. He didn't dare to approach them, cautious not to give away his position, but he followed them to a city on the western coast. For three days, he lingered outside the walls and watched the fishers and farmers enter and exit the gates. He was too superstitious to enter. He couldn't face the possibility that he had been wrong again, not when all his faith was tucked inside those walls. On the fourth day, he finally gathered the courage to enter the city and journey to the market where he lingered about, taking everything in._

_Seeing a small boy, as scrawny and dirt-ridden as he had been at that age, he offered the boy an apple and wondered, "What city is this where you live?"_

"_Alba Longa," the boy answered and tore off so large a chunk of fruit that his cheeks bulged and he could barely keep the white flesh from falling from his lips._

_Damian waited, letting the boy chew, and casually glanced about to be sure none were interested in his presence. He wasn't ready to be noticed yet._

"_Who rules over these lands?"_

"_The great King Aeneas," the boy answered through his full mouth, and for a moment, Damian thought he had misheard._

"_Say again," he commanded more sharply than he meant to. "Speak clearly."_

_The boy swallowed and winced as he forced the large chunk of apple down into his belly. "King Aeneas!" he snapped back and took another bite of the apple._

_This time Damian was grateful for the boy's preoccupied attention because he had lost all sense of what passed around him. _Aeneas… Aeneas…_ The name echoed within his mind, and he knew: Aeneas. The Prince of Dardania who was said to have fled Troy with Hector's wife and children. Could it be a coincidence? Victory had eluded him for so long, and their trail was unperceivable. He had only been led within these walls by chance, by overhearing two men in a market three days' ride away, but the possibility was too sweet to dismiss. _

_He decided to stay. He kept to himself and sought out lodging, but most turned him away. The city was teeming and the homes too few. He continued to search for lodging and caught word that the old blacksmith had died months earlier and there was none to replace him. It occurred to him then that this was no coincidence. Some god had led him here, had guided him within these gates to find the heirs of Troy._

"I took up the blacksmith's post, and though people were suspicious of me, they did not exile me. I kept a constant watch of your family, but I was afraid to ask questions, afraid of drawing more suspicion for being too curious…

_It had been more than a month since Damian had lived within the walls, and he was startled to realize the unusual nature of Alba Longa. It was a home to those who sought it, and suspicions about him had given way to curiosity. He found his neighbors visiting him with gifts to welcome him into the community, asking about his work, and extending offers of help. At first, he was the one to be mistrustful. He'd been beaten down by life, tossed aside by his parents, unknown to his true father, and now, in a city established by his enemies, he was welcomed. It unnerved him, and he kept his guard up, being kind without being friendly. Soon people took the hint and avoided him when they could. He had no use for friends –not from Alba Longa, but he was tempted by the promise of a community when he had travelled alone for so long and so far._

"Then I saw you," he recalled, and his gaze tangled with her own, complicated by their brief past and now the details of his story. "You were so comfortable among your people, as if you were one of them, not a princess set upon a pedestal…

_His black eyes scanned the crowded village square, absently looking through their ranks and spouting off names in his head. He'd met or heard about most of them, but there were still many he did not know. One of them caught his attention for he'd never seen her before, which seemed odd to him since she stood out so fiercely from those around her. She was tall for a woman with a veil poorly hiding the length of her wild, chestnut curls tumbling down her back and a well-made, expensive blue gown molded to her slender body. Beyond her looks was the air about her unlike he had ever seen. She was brimming with life, almost shining out through her bronze skin, and as she passed by a woman she knew, a friend given the candid smile she flashed her, he was stupefied by the way her features lit up. She had the sort of smile only the gods could create. He'd never seen a woman like that and followed her with his gaze, curious and mesmerized, as she worked her way through the square._

"_I'd keep my eyes to myself," Eber warned, and Damian glanced at the older man who had become the closest thing he had to a friend since they were immediate neighbors._

"_Why is that?" he wondered, forgetting for a moment how he tried to ask as few questions as possible. Curiosity was normal, but he had to be sure it didn't seem unwanted._

_Eber didn't seem to mind and smiled briefly. "Because she's Aeneas' daughter, the princess. Wouldn't want her father or older brothers to notice your wandering eyes. They're not too keen on anyone taking an interest in her."_

"_I've never seen a princess walk through her city," he confessed before he had the good sense to shut his mouth._

_Eber chuckled and agreed, "Aeneas and his family… They're not like most royals. When the city was first founded, the King would fish and hunt for food, and his wife would stay behind and till the earth with the farmers. They bear the calluses and scars from building and defending this city. Alba Longa was made with their blood and sweat."_

_Despite Eber's warning, Damian couldn't help but glance at the princess again. She had paused to speak with one of their priestesses, and amid her conversation, she looked up and met his black gaze. He knew he should look away, not draw attention, but he wanted to look at her face and understand this enigma of a young woman. Her large chestnut eyes widened, and she stared straight into him. He had the sensation her innocent eyes pierced through his vest, his skin, his muscles, his bones, right into his soul, and his blood ran cold as he thought she could see exactly who he was and why he had come. But she ducked her head shyly away, interesting him all the more as she continued her conversation and pretended not to notice him. He felt the edges of his mouth hiccup in a smile and took the sack of lentils from Eber._

"_Thank you," he muttered, nodded, and headed back toward his forge._

Damian grew silent for a moment, reflecting back on that memory, before he finished, "I had spent long years clinging to threads of a life that was never mine. I was never truly Menelaus' son –just a bastard, discarded and forgotten. Then by some jest of fate, I found myself welcomed into the heart of my enemies' city…

_"I should leave before my brothers take notice..."_

_He stood with her, and she granted him a subdued look. "Sit," Iliana prompted. "I'll let myself out."_

_Ignoring her request, he remained standing to at least follow her retreat across the small space with his dark eyes. "Thank you for the meal."_

_She glanced over her shoulder as she reached the threshold and smiled a final time. "We have a deal, blacksmith," she reminded him in a tone bolder than she usually held, and it heralded a new friction between them. But she ducked out the door before she could buckle beneath it. _

_Damian stood after she had left, staring at the spot she had once held, and tried to ignore the guilt creeping into his chest. It was leaden, making him fall into his seat once more, and he no longer had a taste for the soup in front of him. She was too sweet, too innocent, too naïve… He couldn't let her near him, but he didn't know how to send her away. Moreover, he didn't want to send her away._

_He could have returned to Sparta a hero. He could have revealed his true identity to Menelaus, and yet he had lived in Alba Longa for more than a year now. He ignored it for as long as he could, but he didn't want to return. Here, in this city, he could abandon the stain on his past and start anew, and no one questioned him._

"I destroyed my armor," Damian said, and immediately Iliana pictured the mutilated helmet he used to prop open his door. It had been there, all this time, the symbol that he was a son of Sparta and her sworn enemy. "I dedicated myself to my work. I finally had a grip on my life. But you…" His black eyes searched her face, hooded beneath his knit brow, and he shook his head.

_"You wouldn't lie to me," she said abruptly, and he seemed to hesitate, whether unsure if it were a question or statement or something else._

_Dropping his gaze pensively to the dirty floor, he said, "I wouldn't hurt you."_

_The differentiation between the two confused her, and she felt no greater satisfaction in his response than before. But for once she knew she needed to walk away and give them both the space to consider what they were promising. Her life would never be the same, and she wasn't sure how to resolve her complicated feelings on that matter._

_"Be careful carrying such heavy things with your wound," she said, and another humorless smile traced his lips. "Be well."_

_As always, he was left staring after her, but their tender words moments earlier soured the longer he looked at the emptiness in his home. Without thinking, he took the full vessel of tsipuoro, swung back as if to throw it, but changed his mind. He placed the edge to his lips, tilted his head back, and drank one gulp after another until the burn spread from his belly, up his throat, through his nose, and to his eyes. He caught his breath, glanced at the empty stool where she had sat, and cringed._

"_You can't do this," he growled under his breath. "You can't pretend."_

_He drank again, as long as he could, until he thought he might be sick and be rid of the heavy alcohol warming his belly. He bent over his knees, felt a cold sweat break across his brow, and sucked down the air as the nausea faded with the seductive pull of the tsipuoro sinking into his blood. Staring at the dirty floor, he was reminded of his poor station and shook his head. He had welcomed every chance to look upon her, but he should never have let her into his home. He should have fought harder, resisted longer. He couldn't cut his past when he looked at her hopeful face, so eager and so enamored. She was killing him with every sympathetic word and kind gesture. He didn't deserve her. He was a liar. He was a nameless bastard._

"You see why I refused you for so long? Why I tried so hard to push you away?" he asked and wanted to smooth the tears from her cheeks, but his hands were bound. Instead, he tried to reach her with his words, "I wanted to give up everything to remain here with you, but I can only cause you pain. I would never hurt any part of you, but it's in my blood… I am Menelaus' son."

The truth rang through the empty room, echoing in their locked regards, and it hurt to hear them, to know they were authentic, and to feel the fresh tears they called to stain her cheeks.

"You led me on," she whispered and inhaled shakily. "You told me you wanted to marry me. You lied to me."

"I never lied to you," he croaked, and she didn't notice how his black eyes were wavering because she was too blinded by her own tears.

"I can't…" She couldn't finish the thought and rose to her feet. Her muscles were sore and her knees ached from kneeling on the barren floor, but she hardly noticed. She felt numb like some god had finally taken pity on her and stolen her pain for just this moment. She stared down at Damian who couldn't crane he neck back far enough to look up at her from this angle and meet her wounded look.

"I'll speak on your behalf," she revealed, "because I fell in love with the man before me, son of Menelaus or otherwise. I won't let them kill you, and in exchange, I only ask one thing."

His chin rested on his chest in the same way she had found him, so that she stared down at his matted black curls but could think of nothing other than they were the same shade as Menelaus' –the man who had stolen everything from her and her family.

"I never want to see you again."

With that she turned and realized the door was open and Aeneas was standing in the back corner, listening to every word they spoke. He hadn't intervened, and somehow she wished he had to stop Damian before he admitted everything. Her father's pale blue eyes searched her face, torn between anger and sympathy, but she bowed her head with shame and stepped past him. Aeneas followed her though she tried to avoid him and took her arm to hold her from fleeing across the square like this.

"Iliana," he murmured and pulled her toward him so that she would face him, but instead, she buried herself in his chest and began sobbing with such force her body shuddered and wracked against him. Aeneas folded her in his arms, holding tight as if he could still her, but he couldn't calm away her fears like when she was a babe. It wasn't so easy now, though he tried, holding her in the midst of their storage building without caring who looked upon them.

"I know it hurts," he said softly and eased his chin against her forehead, "being betrayed."

He thought of the daggers that had stabbed his heart when Myrina revealed her mystery soldier, the man she loved was Hector. He would never wish that pain upon one of his children, but he had become aware of it much too later. He wasn't sure which was worse. Falling in love with the woman who would be his best friend's wife, or falling in love with the bastard son of the king who killed her family and stole her lands. How did he let this happen? How did he fail so miserably as a father? Hector would never have left this happen.

"You'll never see him again," he consoled, remembering her final words in the room.

Here, Iliana sucked in a breath and pushed at his chest and the hair clumping to her face. She was at once pale and flush with tears, reddening her nose and eyes as she gazed up at him. "You won't kill him," she commanded.

His features deflated, realizing she was still committed to this path, and tried to steer her way, "Iliana—"

"You heard me," she interrupted. "I swore to him he would be released."

"I can't do that."

"Yes you can. You're the king. You can do whatever you like."

"Not here. Not in this case…"

"I swore to him!" she said and wrung her hands in the front of her father's robes. "I told him he would be safe!"

Aeneas was bewildered and astonished as he realized, "You truly love him."

Her face puckered, but she admitted, "Yes… No matter his past. I love him, and I won't let you kill him."

The King was speechless, mouth ajar and poised to speech, but the words fled from him. All he could think of was Myrina –how he'd loved and protected her even after she betrayed him, even after she was Hector's wife. Love didn't wait for the right circumstances and time to announce itself, and he'd long learned how it could tear someone down and build them up again. He faltered, unsure what he could say, because he could never attribute what he felt for Myrina as possible by anyone else. He was a son of Aphrodite. Only he could stand something so powerful, but who was he to judge Iliana?

"I can't release him," Aeneas conceded, admitting he wouldn't kill Damian, not until he was sure it was the right course of action. There was no undoing death.

"He'll die if you keep him in these conditions!" Iliana said, eager to gain more ground now that her father had taken a step back.

"What are you asking me to do?"

"If you must keep him imprisoned, then have the healer tend to his wounds. Give him food and water."

"You expect me to care for the man who came here to betray us and nearly killed you?" Aeneas seethed and couldn't hide the aggravation from tainting his gaze.

"Yes," she answered, "and when Haemon returns, let him decide what is to become of Damian."

Her father's face stiffened and twisted. "You trust his judgment more than mine?"

Iliana knew the insult she provided, but her only thought was to buy Damian more time –to find a way to release him and uphold her promise. "Yes, because he will hear of this matter with fresh ears and be able to decide for himself what is suitable."

Aeneas stepped away from her and looked toward the door. If he had known this blacksmith could turn his own daughter against him, he would have bladed Damian the moment he laid eyes on him. As it was, his sympathy for the man was fast turning to regret.

"Promise me you'll do this for me," Iliana prompted from behind him, now dried of her tears, but Aeneas still couldn't look at her.

He loved her unconditionally. He would do anything for her, even if it tore through him to agree, "Yes."

* * *

**Author's Note**: SURPRISE! Hello lovelies, did I catch you off guard? So Damian's past is revealed, and I sincerely doubt (fingers crossed) that it's what any of you anticipated. Does it all make sense? What will happen next?

Thank you to klandgraf2007 for the super sweet review! Yes! I know it was a huge unexpected twist, but this plot line occurred to me after I'd already begun writing on the story... It was too good to ignore :) I mean part of me feels bad because they both really care about each other and are tormented by this accident. Now Damian's heritage is revealed, and I wonder how Iliana's brothers will react when they realize he's Menelaus' bastard son. Admittedly, he's had a horrible life, and he really has no connection to Menelaus at all. Being in Alba Longa proved that to him, but he'll still be judged. Do you think Aeneas will keep his promise and wait for Haemon? Do you think Haemon will listen to Iliana or get some vengeance by killing Damian? Hm, only time will tell! Thanks so much for the review, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! :D xoxo


	16. Run

Chapter 16  
"Run"

It was high noon when he rode through the gates. Apollo's chariot loitered at its peak, burning amid a clear blue sky, and the cool breezes from the ocean swept across the lands and rustled his long blonde curls. They clung to his sweaty forehead, and he dismounted from his stead, nearly gasping for breath with the haste he had returned to his city. Peasants about the square took notice of his appearance and were preoccupied gazing and wondering over the Alban Prince. Yet he was single-minded and started for his father's door when one voice yanked him back.

"Ascanius!"

Her tone was higher, near a shriek, and he scarcely turned in time to see his petite wife with her skirt in her hands running toward him. His brow was knotted with worry and to keep out the sun, but it eased merely by seeing her, however distressed and unkempt she might appear, when he had feared he would never face his wife, his child, or his family again. Eione leapt into his arms, wrapped her arms about his neck, and held him with all the strength she could bear. It was no match for his grip which might have broken her in two had she not supplicated so completely into him. The warm, wet touch of something against his shoulder distracted him, and he drew away from her to see the tears smeared across her cheeks.

"Why are you crying?" he asked and found her chin with his forefinger and thumb, easing her face up to meet his curious gaze.

Her feline eyes flashed at him, looking both vexed and fraught, and she held tightly to him still almost as if fearful to release him. "I missed you," she muttered, and Ascanius smiled at young wife who could present herself like a lion but whom he knew to be tender as a lamb inside.

He found her lips, and the sleepless nights, the fear, the concern, and the relief manifested in his kiss, burdensome and all consuming of Eione. She took his face in her hands where his long beard scratched her palms and warned it was in need of a trimming. She could scarcely notice or wonder of it for the way he possessed her in that instant until the whole of the city around them crumbled away in her mind, and she would have surrendered to anything he demanded of her. Yet he pulled away, kneading his forehead dissatisfied against hers, and she looked up hungrily into his blue eyes and lacked the ability to conceal what his absence had done to her.

He held her still and seemed as if he might claim her once more and wholly shatter her sense of control when he noticed someone exiting the door at his left. Glancing over, he saw Iliana approached him looking so pale and weak in the sunlight that he nearly reached for her elbow to steady her and be sure she would not collapse. He released Eione to take his little sister into his arms as well, not sparing a confused glance at the bandage around her neck, and embraced her with as much gentleness as he could spare.

"Brother," she said, voice awash with relief, "you've returned."

"Yes…" Ascanius looked past his sister to Aeneas who stepped outside as well. His father bore the same handsome grin as his own, but it faltered as he noticed something in his son's gaze.

Iliana stepped away and considered the guards and Ambassador Solon who were only then entering the gates. Ascanius was the fastest rider, and it was clear then that no haste had been spared. Yet someone was missing.

"Where is Haemon?" she asked quietly and turned to her brother once more.

Ascanius' features weakened, and he asked of Aeneas, "Have you not received word from him?"

"No," their father answered, and by now his grin has receded completely and given way to a much more stern look, "not for more than a week. Last he wrote of was his suspicions about the princess and warned he may return sooner than expected."

Ascanius' eyes turned to the ground, and he shook his head. Much had been revealed and much lost since then.

"What's happened?" Aeneas wondered immediately and stepped toward his son with his concern patched across his face.

The Prince glimpsed at the peasants halting amid their work to watch the royal family, and he said, "We shouldn't speak of it here."

"Come inside," his father agreed. "The servants will take your horses."

Ascanius turned to his wife and directed, "Be home with Chara. I'll join you soon."

Eione hesitated, looking as if she couldn't bear to part with her husband after only just being reunited with him, and he offered her a weak smile.

"Go."

Reluctantly, she obeyed, and he followed her leave with his gaze briefly before stepping inside and shadowing Aeneas to his quarters. All the servants were dismissed so that father and son were left alone to their conversation.

"Nereus is on patrol?" the Prince assumed considering his brother's absence, and Aeneas nodded. Nereus' wise ear would have been much appreciated, but he would be informed soon enough. "And Ariston?"

"He rode north with a contingent. Scipio marches for Port Sanna."

"War with Umbria continues," he acknowledged and bowed his head slightly, realizing the multitude of forces which were rising in opposition of Alba Longa. How would they fight them all off without their commander, their crown prince?

"You've not been gone so long, my son, for old wounds to heal," Aeneas said solemnly but couldn't offer another moment to that topic—not when one of his sons was missing. "What of Haemon? Where is he?"

Ascanius lifted his heavy head and considered his father through resigned eyes. A pause lingered between them until Ascanius revealed, "We were betrayed."

"What!" he countered and took a step toward his son.

Inhaling uneasily, his anger began to breathe inside him, and the Prince struggled to keep his voice even as he said, "Savas."

‡‡‡

The scourge tore into his naked back, the bits of bronze and bone ripping at his flesh, and he gritted his teeth but could not withhold the short cry of pain. Already the skin was bloody and the flesh sore, and in the breath as the man withdrew for another strike, Atlan rested his forehead against the wooden post around which his arms were tied and was at the least grateful for its presence so that he could lean his weight against it when he became too exhausted and weak to hold himself. Days they had kept him in a lightless room, giving him water from time to time and feeding him less, and then the torture, threats, and interrogations began. When the whip did not find him again, he knew Savas' icy voice would snake to his ear.

"Where are they?" he hissed near enough Atlan could have turned to meet his gaze, but the huntsman preferred to gather his strength. He would not speak against Aurora, and so it would be a long, arduous process before they finally executed him or he bled out from his wounds.

Savas snapped forward, took Atlan by his pale blonde hair, and forced the huntsman to lift his head and look at the Apulian King. His blue eyes were fire compared the chill marble texture of his skin. His nostrils shuddered, sweat beaded across his brow, and the veins quivered beneath his thin skin at his temples. The huntsman's exhausted grey eyes sustained Savas' gaze without faltering, and the King's lips shivered with insult.

Releasing, Atlan's head, he growled out, "Ten lashes!"

The huntsman had no time to prepare himself before the first strike landed, one of those jagged bronze pieces nestling into a fresh wound, and he recoiled and arched against the post with a groan of pain. Another, and he dug his nails into the palms of his hands and tried to focus on that prick rather than the scourge at his raw back. By five, he was shuddering and holding fast to the post to keep from stumbling to the floor. In the deep pit of pain, he unearthed an old, fragile memory of a pale, bloodied, and dirt-ridden little girl whose cheeks were stained with tears and whose eyes were too heavy for her youthful face. He recalled how his cloak had swallowed her, how he scooped her up into his arms, and how he carried her out of the forest as she clung to his robes and hid her face in his arms. He had vowed that day to protect her. At last, the ten lashes were dealt. His back pulsed, ached, and burned with every breath he drew. Such raw, unforgiving pain… He was dizzy and weak, but he thought of that little girl. She was worth 100 lashes—and then some.

Savas ambled closer once more and exhaled irritably. Rulers would have their own tactics for gaining respect, bolstering their power, and stifling threats. Savas had emerged as a connoisseur of fear since he assumed the throne after Gallad, and in lands where peasants worried of what lingered in the dark of the forests or at their borders, fear was a constant, pervasive tool to keep them pinned under his thumb. None would speak of how he was Gallad's bastard son through his mistress, though all knew, but it was undoubtedly death to admit such aloud. Savas had spies scattered throughout his lands—from the north to south and east to west. He would hear of all, and he was swift and merciless in his punishment. Atlan knew the risk in sending word to Alba Longa, but he had thought his messenger honest and his route safe. Evidently he had underestimated Savas' paranoia and need for control.

"Where?" he growled and took Atlan by his hair yet again.

The grey gaze that met him was watery, fast-losing its power and yet resilient still.

Savas grimaced. "You've always bore such devotion and loyalty to her…more than to your own king."

The huntsman struggled for breath when every shift of his chest doubled the pain in his back, and so he huffed short and swift through his mouth without scarcely seeming to grasp onto the air. He drew a longer breath, feeling his muscles stretch, his back flared, and he gritted his teeth only to spit out, "You're not my king."

The grip on his scalp tightened considerably until it felt Savas would tear out his hair and the venomous words with it, but Atlan knew the fault in the King's armor, his greatest fear—Aurora. He had kept her close thinking he could control and subvert her, but she had survived and had been meant since that night to rise. She was their queen, and Savas had lost his grip on her and the whole of the world about him. The pillars of his palace had been built upon lies and deceit, and now the entire structure threatened to collapse and take him with it.

These fears flittered across the King's tense face as if tangible more than private thoughts, and he abruptly released Atlan and barked out, "Twenty lashes!"

His voracious blue eyes watched every strike, lavishing in the blood slipping down the huntsman's back and nipping with morbid delight at Atlan's groans and cries of pain. Atlan did not make it to eight before his knees collapsed, and he crouched against the post, sagging and crumpling at the succeeding blows.

"Pick him up!" Savas commanded, and a guard took Atlan and yanked him pitilessly to his feet.

The huntsman cried out for the way it tore and wrenched his open wounds. Pain permeated his body to its core, then unraveling him from the inside out until he held no control over himself and no will to fight. His fists unclenched, and in the loose grip of his fingers, he felt the image of Aurora slipping through the gap. He struggled to pull it into focus before his weak eyes so that he might face and remember what was worth eleven more lashes… He fell again, and this time it took two guards to pick him up.

"Hold him!"

The guards held him still for the final four strikes, not faltering in the least at the torture continuing at their hands. How easily they could turn and strike down Savas, their bastard king, but fear was powerful. They would rather hold Atlan to be punished than assume his place.

Savas waited to see how the huntsman's pain would continue long after the scourge had been removed, and a contented smile snaked into his lips for the moment. He had not received answers, but a new plan had been birthed while watching Atlan suffer.

"Galen," he snapped, and the perspiring councilman approached from his right, looking sallow and ill. The King did not notice for he announced, "I've thought of a way to force my niece out of hiding."

"My Lord?" Galen whispered anxiously and kept his gaze anywhere but on the huntsman and his mangled back.

"We'll have him executed. Publicly… We'll send word throughout the land, and she'll return to save him," he chuckled darkly and wet his lips letting the statement trail off into the morbid pleasures of his mind's eye.

‡‡‡

"Would you like more, My Lord?" Balbus asked as he removed Haemon's empty bowl from before him. The wine maker had not learned of Haemon's true identity, but he used the title simply owing to Haemon's close association with the Princess. Constantly he was cautious of his steps and his words as if Aurora might find fault in any minor occasion and have Balbus killed or worse—cursed.

While the Princess had exploited her station, she attempted as best she could to overlook the implications of her effect on the wine maker. It reminded her too clearly of the rumors spread about her and of how the peasants gossiped behind her back. She'd never enjoyed being the villain of their tales when she was much more matched for the role of the victim.

"Yes," Haemon answered and swept up his cup of wine, a particularly pungent and rich batch that had no doubt been Balbus' private reserve then uncorked to share with the Princess and her company. In Alba Longa, they were not this sort of royalty. They worked alongside their countrymen and lived in houses, albeit large ones, rather than a palace. The time spent in the Apulian palace and now the rare luxury amid the mountains afforded to them pleased Haemon more than he wished to admit. It seemed treasonous to confess there was something so alluring and gratifying in such opulence, but it recalled memories of a palace in the East where he'd had at least ten servants to his bidding alone.

"I would as well," Aurora muttered, feeling her stomach swell from the large portion, and yet she was still famished. She had not eaten so well in…years.

Balbus visibly shuddered with embarrassment and hurried to grasp her bowl. He seemed to realize his error in not asking the Princess first, but surely he had not thought a princess would ask for seconds. Aurora merely quirked one pale eyebrow, and the wine maker bowed and rushed to complete his task.

As she considered the Prince across from her once more, she didn't anticipate the frank smile curving his lips and was aware how her belly muscles tightened at the look.

"I've never seen you finish a meal, let alone ask for more," he commented and sipped at his cup. He'd always assumed she had the appetite of a bird, to nip at whatever was offered to her without interest as if nothing appealed to her or she were too distracted to be bothered by eating. It had irritated him to see platters upon platters of food set before her and wasted. She had never known what it was to walk about hungry, uncertain when or what her next meal would be, as he had in the final months of their journey from Troy to Alba Longa when he was a boy.

Her mismatched eyes glimpsed at him shyly, and the prick of a soft blush warmed her cheeks. The cup and a half of wine she had consumed had already called a flush to taint her features, and thus she was not so embarrassed by the renewed vigor with which her face reddened. However, her womanly nature nipped at her. Defensively, she admitted, "I'm hungry."

His smile grew especially to watch how she shied still around him, and he commended, "Good girl," before drawing another sip.

She glanced at him in surprise, saw the amusement in his dark eyes, and timidly smiled as well. He was constantly griping at her for not eating after all…

Balbus returned with their bowls of stew filled to the brim of each clay dish, and he lingered a moment to replenish their cups of wine before excusing himself. Neither Haemon nor Aurora uttered a word while he was about, but once he was safely out of sight in a nearby room where he could be called if needed, Aurora looked to the Prince and watched him spoon another mouthful. She idly turned the bronze spoon in her grip much like her mind grappled with the question hanging from the tip of her tongue.

Given his relaxed demeanor, good humor, and their christening of their borrowed chambers several times the previous day, she noted she was afforded greater liberty than before. He held steady to the power in their relationship, but gradually she had the sense she was rising beside him. He had told her that was what he desired, but it seemed impossible when he was so overwhelming. His mere presence could topple over anything within reach and leave him the sole pillar standing tall. She felt nervous and uncertain to assume she could stand beside him, but her curiosity had a way giving her transparent courage.

"What was your city like?" she asked softly, but in the silence between them, it sounded so much louder.

He chewed and swallowed a piece of vegetable and considered her with his head cocked slightly over one shoulder. "Alba Longa," he began as he thought of what she would wish to hear, but she interrupted him.

"No… The other one. Your father's city."

A crease formed between his brows, and she was certain then that it had been a poor choice of topic. Promptly, she searched for another avenue to distract him.

He scratched at the grain of his beard and watched her eyes darting across the tabletop as if looking for something. His inclination was to ignore her question and continue speaking about Alba Longa, but he had been the one to tell her the bare facts about Troy and Hector. He had opened the door, and what should he care if she wished to know what lay beyond it? Why did it make him so uneasy to speak about Troy with someone who had not been there? He and his siblings never spoke of it. They pretended their memories had burned alongside her walls. It was a poor strategy for recovering from so great a loss, and it was ineffective. Troy was a part of him. It would always be a part of him.

"Troy was beautiful," he answered at length, and Aurora's posture bobbed to attention. "Our walls were surrounded by open plains of grass and fields where farmers would grow their crops, but inside the walls, the streets were crowded with houses built upon houses so tall I thought they would crumble down when I was a boy." He smiled briefly at the memory of riding before Hector through the streets and recalled the pride coursing through him to be seen alongside the Crown Prince. "And at the center stood the palace higher than all the rest and so large my brothers and I could hide for days—if our father hadn't known the layout as well… From the balcony you could see the villages surrounding our city and past them all the way to the Aegean Sea—"

He paused and drew from his memories to focus on her face completely absorbed with interest.

"You know where the Aegean Sea lies?" he asked, and Aurora shook her head, embarrassed to admit how little of Greece she knew other than that it existed and nothing of what was beyond it.

Haemon pushed his cup of wine into the center of the table and noted, "Here is Apulia." Next he positioned his bowl of stew and pointed, "This is Greece." Drawing a sharply curved line between them, he signaled the border between the land and sea which separated the two.

He glanced at her to be sure she followed, and she nodded again, muttering, "Yes."

He moved her cup of wine to the opposite side of the bowl—_Greece_—and tapped the base with a soft clink. "This is Troad."

"Troad?" she repeated uncertainly.

"My lands," he explained and faltered as he realized his fault, but he continued and drew a larger curve for the sea between Greece and Troad. "Between them lies the Aegean Sea."

Again, he paused to look at her, and she nodded. "I understand."

Her gaze darted between the three objects and tried to grasp the magnitude of what they symbolized and what he was telling her, and Haemon seemed to give her a moment to process it all.

"Is Troad large?" she wondered.

"No," he confessed. "Perhaps as large as Apulia or even smaller."

She chewed on her bottom lip in thought, completely forgetting what her mother would say about this, and gazed from Troad, her small cup of wine, to Greece, his large bowl of soup. The difference seemed obvious, and she recalled what he had told her of war with Greece. A thousand new questions were born from this realization, but she decided to focus on Troad for the moment, on his home. The memory of war might end their conversation sooner than she liked.

"Troy was on the coast," she assumed.

"Not quite… There were smaller villages along the sea—like Illagus where my mother was born."

Here Aurora couldn't fight away her frown and was certain she misunderstood. "Troy was the capital."

Haemon nodded stiffly and plucked away Apulia, his cup of wine, from their impromptu map to finish the last of it.

"And your father was the crown prince?"

"Yes," he agreed, somewhat surprised that she recalled.

"And your mother…?" She let the question trail off for she wasn't sure how to articulate it.

Haemon caught on and realized why she was so vague with the effect of a smirk gracing his features. "My mother was the daughter of a fisherman from Illagus. Her name was Myrina."

"Is that common?" she wondered earnestly. "In your country?"

"No… My father was meant to marry a princess, but he refused."

"Why?"

"It's complicated," Haemon admitted considering the winding tale his mother had told him and his siblings when they were young and grasping for any piece of their dead father to hold onto.

Her hopeful interest deflated abruptly, and her shoulders sunk a little lower. With every piece of him that he deigned to reveal to her, she was the more curious and intrigued by this prince. Had she been told the man she ran into that fateful night in the corridor of the Apulian palace would be a long forgotten heir to a lost kingdom, she would have thrown her head back and laughed. Now she was nipping to know his story and understand him. He was so much more than she would ever have imagined.

Seeing the effect of his clipped reply, Haemon reluctantly explained, "When they were children, my father and mother met by chance. My father gave her a pin from his robes and promised he would meet her again." Haemon lifted up his hand where the ring on his finger shone in the dim lighting. Aurora gazed at the seal on it and understood now that it was the emblem of Troy since it had been his father's. "They did not see each other again for five years, and my mother returned the pin my father had given her years before…" There the tale took on its momentum and tangled nature, and he wasn't sure how to concisely recount it.

"And?" Aurora prompted impatiently, causing Haemon to smirk humorlessly again.

"They became close friends, and my father would visit her from time to time when he could escape his duties. He soon left for war and was gone for several years, and when he returned…" Again, Haemon paused and searched for the right words. He had never been forced recount such an old tale, and it felt odd to speak of his deceased parents in this way. Their love had been dangerous as Paris and Helen's to all those around them, and they had risked everything to be together—yet his father left them to find glory on the battlefield and his mother gave herself to Aeneas to live out the rest of her days as his wife.

"When he returned," Aurora picked up and assumed, "he saw her differently."

Haemon noted the shimmer of interest and admiration in her gaze. Women would be wooed by such a tale, but she couldn't possibly understand how the ending ruined it all.

"Yes," he said, voice more bitter and curt than before. "He offered to give up his crown, his station, and his family for her, but the King agreed to let them marry. They lived together nearly fifteen years before my father died." His gaze fell to consider the ring, and he acknowledged, "My mother made this from the pin that my father had given her as a present for him early in their marriage. He wore it every day until his death."

She lengthened her neck to better see the unassuming ring on Haemon's finger and doubted she had ever heard of something more romantic. He rarely ever removed it, and she wondered why if it had been a token of his parent's love. She suspected that was not the reason he wore it. What did he see when he looked at it?

Haemon took up the vessel of wine to refill his cup only to discover it emptied and exhaled irritably before calling out, "Balbus!"

Aurora still mused about the tale he had recounted and took no notice when the man did not answer.

"Balbus!" Haemon called again, louder and angrier.

Again, silence, and the Prince looked to Aurora, thinking she might be able to gather the man's attention given her power over the wine maker.

She understood the look in his gaze but deferred, "Perhaps he's fallen asleep…" Frankly, she felt uncomfortable calling for him in a such a manner more than anything.

Haemon frowned with aggravation, but he swept up the vessel, stood, and headed toward the adjacent room where the wine maker usually sat.

Aurora was left to the silence of the room where she could faintly make out of the sounds and light from the exterior coming through the few windows which were shuttered with wooden pieces she supposed to keep out wandering eyes and greedy hands. Large villages such as Rytilä were not known for their safety. In fact, some argued they were havens for thieves and villains. Aurora was grateful for these reasons that they had found shelter with Balbus and not been taken advantage of given their small company. She spooned some of the stew into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Her eyes desired it, but she realized her stomach scarcely had room to place it. She settled for idly stirring the vegetables and meat around and gazing at the "map" on the table.

The front door of the establishment opened without warning, and Aurora stiffened uncertainly and glanced toward the threshold which divided the kitchen and dining area from the front part of the home which was dedicated to his business. A thin piece of fabric separated the two spaces, and with the afternoon light streaming in from the open door, she could make out the shadows moving through the room. Three… Four… No, five shadows moved about, and she kept quiet in hopes they would take no notice of her. What large of a group would come in search of wine? She dared to look away for a moment toward the area where Haemon had disappeared in search of Balbus and found neither had materialized yet. Who would distract and answer these figures if not Balbus? She and Haemon were meant to be nothing more than ghosts resting here for a few days before they took to the High Pass and then Samnium.

Nervously she looked back to the threshold and could not see the shadows any longer. She stood, gaze wholly focused on the slender piece of cloth, and accidently knocked the stool she was sitting in while trying to step around it. It toppled over with a muted clutter, but she fretted it was audible to those shadows lingering about. The door was still ajar. What were they doing?

All of a sudden, the cloth was drawn back, and a man stepped into the threshold, glancing about briefly before finding Aurora in his sights. His uniform warned of his station though his helmet was missing, but all Aurora could focus on was the sword sheathed at his side. Guards.

She couldn't dare utter a word, only looked at the man, and prayed that her worst fears had not been swept onto this doorstep. Would she ever run fast enough or far enough to get away?

"Princess," he said and stepped through the door. The other guards funneled behind him. "We've been searching for you. You're to return to the palace. The King was been distraught by your absence."

Her lips trembled much like the rest of her body, and she could not believe they had found her. How? They had been so careful and quiet. She took a step back, hitting the edge of the table and hearing cups and bowls groan atop the wood. She shuddered at the sound and tried to imagine a way to escape. Surely there was a back door, but she had not seen it. Should she run and hope to evade them? No. They would catch her within seconds of her feet leaving the ground. There were five guards. She could not overpower them. What was she to do? Surrender?

_No_, her mind hissed at her. _Survive_.

Without hesitation, she yelled out, "Haemon!"

The first guard frowned in confusion and took toward her, causing her to retreat blindly. She grasped the cup Haemon had drunk from and threw it at the guard, hitting his shoulder and doing little damage if any.

"Haemon!"

She staggered back and tripped on a bunch in the rug scattered across the floor. She fell backward and had the sinking sensation of fate grasping her by the scruff of her neck. This was all too familiar. It would not let her escape twice… She hit the floor with a groan and immediately tried to scramble to her feet.

"What are you doing?"

All attentions left Aurora rushing to her feet to the tall, burly man standing behind her.

"You can't be in here," he continued in a rough tone and stepped around the Princess as if to push the men out of the room. "This isn't your home!"

For a moment, the guard was confused by this interruption, mistaking Haemon for the owner, but soon he realized his mistake. Once within reach, the Prince struck like a snake and stole the guard's sword, slicing up across the man's chest and opening his insides where blood spewed from the wound. He howled and fell back, revealing his accomplices who rushed to take the Prince.

Haemon kicked the stool in front of one man's stride, too soon for the man to adjust his course, and he went toppling onto the ground. Haemon drove his sword through the man's back and only retracted it to deflect the blade swinging for him. The guard recoiled and swung again, narrowly missing when Haemon stepped out of his way. The other guard was at Haemon's side, and Haemon took his wrist, holding him in place when his elbow struck his jaw. The man was dazed and unprepared when Haemon spun and used the guard like a shield between himself and the other man who mistakenly sliced across his friend's back. The space was too small. The guards too inexperienced. Haemon too shrewd a killer. They never stood a chance against the Alban Prince. He threw the guard against his friend who discarded his weapon to catch him, looking sallow and distraught to know the damage he had done to his ally, but he had no time to consider it further for Haemon tore open the man's gut with his blade. The guard fell with his hands grasping his bloody stomach, and only then did the other guard realize he was unguarded. He futilely lifted his arms up as if they could shield him, but Haemon wrenched him by the edge of his armor and threw him back against the wall, then placing the edge of his blade to the man's throat.

"How did you find us?" he snapped and added more force to his weapon, giving the man a thin window to answer.

"The potter!" he answered in a short gasp, and Haemon eased his grip for the man to finished, "We received orders from the capital to look for the princess and her betrothed. We searched about the market and found the potter who said he had directed a couple to the wine maker's home."

The man was shaking and sweating, looking to Haemon as if he were staring at Thanatos himself. The Prince seemed immune and clenched tighter to the man's armor. "Who else knows?"

"No one," he whispered nervously. "Please… I have a family…"

"I counted five," Aurora said from Haemon's left, and he glanced briefly at the Princesss who was pale but standing tall. "There were five guards."

He had only killed three… He frowned and growled, turning his anger on the guard, who recoiled with a look of terror.

"No! Please—"

Haemon stabbed the man through his chest and cut off his appeal. Frothy blood rose to the man's lips, spilling from the corner of his mouth, as he searched Haemon's dark eyes and found no pity or remorse. Haemon retracted his blade and let the body fall limp to the floor. His family could prepare his soul to meet Hades.

The Prince looked to Aurora once more, blood-stained and breathing heavily, and commanded, "Gather our things. We must get to the gate."

Aurora looked at him for a moment and then to the four bodies littered about him. She would never become accustomed to how efficient a killer he was.

"Go," he said more sharply, and she hurried up the stairs to gather their things.

Her hands were shaking. She couldn't find the air to breathe. She threw everything unceremoniously into the packs Atlan had given them and tried not to picture the way the blood pooled across the floor and rugs. The image shifted in her head, twisting to something far more malevolent: her eldest brother pale and screwed on the stone floor where blood thick and dark as oil surrounded him. She shook her head roughly and tried to focus on her shaking hands. Why was everything shaking? She loaded the packs onto her shoulders but was not as strong as Haemon. One was neglected to the ground where she knotted the edge around her wrist and dragged it after her. Her knees were unsteady, and she nearly tumbled down the stairs multiple times, yet somehow she found the strength and will to keep steady. As she alighted the stairs and returned to the main level, she found Haemon had discarded his robes for one of the men's uniforms. He fastened the foreign armor into place as best he could. It was not made for his burly body, but it would do. He sheathed the sword but did not offer to take the packs from Aurora as he normally did.

"Go to the stable, ready the horse, and make for the gate. Stay away from the main street. Avoid crowds. Never linger. Never run." He stepped forward and pulled her cloak about her shoulders, knotting the edges tightly and then drawing the hood onto her head. He tucked the ends of her blonde hair away and readjusted the edges of the cloak to shield her.

She stared up into his face, looking for a clue as to his plan but was granted only a glimpse at the handsome features and his stoic expression. Her stomach fell with the weight of intuition.

With his task completed, he unexpectedly took her chin and considered her face as if he had been avoiding it all this time. Searching her odd eyes, he wondered sternly, "Do you understand?"

"No," she said and might have shook her head had his grip allowed it. "What are you doing?"

"If a guard has seen you and escaped, he'll run to warn the others and trap us inside the walls. Go to the gate, Aurora. I'll make a diversion to distract them."

"I won't leave you!" she countered immediately, and her features screwed at the thought.

"There's no time," he said in a heavier tone, but she did not bend to him as she would before.

"No!" She stepped closer to him like she could stand perfectly in opposition of him and stared fiercely up into those dark eyes. "We go together, Haemon."

Their regards locked, each as stubborn and unyielding as the other, and Haemon muttered, "Stubborn woman," under his breath before snatching up the pack Aurora had been dragging on the ground. His fingers circled her palm and tugged at her hand, drawing her after him as they strode to the back of the house. She clutched tightly to him and kept pace so that they made it swiftly to the back door. He checked around the edges to be sure the narrow way was clear before taking them to the small stable at the back of the home where only two horses were housed.

The old, grey-spotted farm horse shook its mane with recognition when it saw them, and Haemon could only afford the animal a chaste pat on its neck before tying the packs to its back. It could sense their anxious energy and pawed at the dirt, neighing restlessly and tossing its head. Aurora took either side of its long snout in between her palms and guided its head to look at her.

"Easy," she whispered gently and stroked at its short fur. It neighed and tilted its head back, knocking Aurora in the shoulder with its nose. She barely faltered and took hold of it again, hushing it softly as she drew her hands along it. Within a few beats, the horse had focused on its handler and seemed soothed by her gentle words.

Haemon fitted the reigns over the horse's snout and took Aurora's arm so that she joined him at the side of the horse. His hands grasped her waist, and he hoisted her up to sit atop the horse which was odd since he usually mounted before her. She stared down at him uneasily and comforted herself by thinking he would only take the reigns and guide them through the streets. Instead he offered them to her, but she would not accept them.

"Don't do this," she said and frowned deeply as she realized he had only done this much to appease and deceive her.

"Aurora, we can't go together. Not this time. I'll find you outside along the High Pass."

"Haemon, please," she began, but he wouldn't let her finish.

His hands took one of hers and placed the reigns inside her palm, then curling her fingers around them and holding fast to be sure she wouldn't let go. "Trust me. This is our only chance."

No matter how inappropriate or ill timed, her eyes pricked, and a fresh terror electrified her through her spine. She'd never been alone—not since that night, and like then, she had no choice this time.

"Swear to me," she commanded and clenched her jaw to fight back the emotions so that they did not manifest on her face. She didn't want him to know how terrified she was. She wanted to prove she could be strong.

A brief flicker of surprise relaxed his brow, but he released her hand and repeated, "I'll find you."

She said nothing more though there was suddenly so much she wanted to say—like that she didn't hate him, that she was afraid to be without him, that she was stronger because of him. Her eyes merely looked at him, wide and pulsing, and he took a step back to give her space.

"Go to the gate. Wait for the guards to be distracted."

She nodded stiffly and drove her heels into the horse's side. She took off down the narrow alleyway behind the homes. The main street was at her left. In the brief interim between the homes and buildings she could see flashes of the pedestrians and thought it too close. She tugged on the reigns to slow the horse, and it obeyed her seamlessly now unlike when they had first stolen the beast. Suddenly it seemed like so much time had passed. The attack in the forest almost felt like a bad dream, but the nightmare wasn't over. She had to get through the gates, or they would have been separated for no purpose. They headed right deeper into the homes and away from the marketplace where she assumed the guards would be funneling to find them.

_Stay hidden_, her mind urged her. _Keep to the back streets_.

The way was narrow, her shoulders nearly brushed against the buildings, and the horse was uneasy. She guided it on though it was difficult to convince either of them this was the proper way to go. Some villagers cursed her for riding about like this and dove out of her way, but she was too terrified to answer or to dismount. She feared being caught on foot knowing she could not flee swiftly but was also afraid to be noticed for this odd behavior. Neither option was ideal, and she decided to ignore it and continue riding toward the gate.

They made it into a larger gap between the buildings where a small side street intersected with the main road, and she dared to look about her and gain her bearings. She saw no guards, but they were scattered all throughout the town. The buildings were too cramped ahead of her to allow her to continue with the same tactic as before. Her only option was to take to the main street, but she was past the market. It wouldn't be so crowded and so dangerous. Her heart thundered in her chest for she knew the sole option available to her. She couldn't dare to draw attention atop the horse, so she reluctantly slipped down to her feet and paused to adjust her cloak and their packs.

"No one will notice us," she muttered less to the horse than herself and started for the main street which led to the gate. Once outside it, she would be in view of the High Pass and perhaps a day's ride from Samnium. How much farther to the capital she didn't know, but she would be safe from Savas in Samnium. The other milieu of dangers, however, still threatened her. She closed her eyes briefly and pushed away those thoughts. She had to focus on the task at hand. Whatever else awaited her, she would deal with it when she and Haemon were reunited. He would protect her. The irony of his absence and that thought sent her stomach into a pit until she visibly winced.

She was at the edge where the buildings gave way to the largest street. Pedestrians ambled up and down the length, and she glanced toward the gate where guards stood sentry at the entrance. An old man with a mule and cart of goods were ahead of her, and without thinking, she followed behind it, using him to distract the guards from her. She kept her hood up and covering her face. Along the top of the gates was a ledge where guards walked about and oversaw everything within the city. Her pace was slow and even, shadowing after the cart. With every step they drew closer to the gate, the harder her heart pounded until it felt it might tear through her chest. She should have waited in the side street, but she was afraid to be seen lingering. She couldn't turn away now, or she would draw more attention. She was walking into the guard's hands, and she thought of Haemon. What was he doing? Had he been caught already?

_No_, she thought, _it would take more than a few guards to hold him_.

That much she was certain about the Prince, and as he had said, she needed to trust him. He swore to her he would come through, but many vain promises had been made over the years to Aurora and not kept. She continued behind the old man and his cart, pausing with him when the guards stopped him to look through his cart. This was unusual. They knew Aurora and Haemon were here. They wouldn't let her pass. Seeing that the man's cart was only filled with goods and hiding no fugitives, the guard opened one side of the gate to let him through. The old man began to leave, and the guard turned his attention to Aurora who was fortunate to have the sun's angle shading her face. She stood there as he approached, not sure what to do or say, when suddenly there was a burst of commotion behind them.

A loud explosion echoed down the street though its source was unknown, and the guards were enlivened as one man standing at the ledge announced, "Fire! Fire!"

A bronze bell was rung, and the guards rushed toward the town square where the market lay and smoke could be seen billowing up between the buildings.

_Haemon_, Aurora knew, relieved by this diversion and still unnerved by her escape. Without hesitation, she turned toward the gate still ajar from the old man and hurried through even as a guard from above called out, "You! Wait! You can't leave!"

She could, and she did. On the opposite side of the gate, she mounted the horse and took off toward the High Pass where she rode past the old man who shouted that she had borrowed Hermes' sandals. She would have had the god offered them, but her only thought was to place as much distance between Rytilä and herself as possible because it meant distancing herself from those guards…but also Haemon.

He had told her not to, but she couldn't stop herself from looking over her shoulder at the walls and the black smoke billowing up from inside.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hey dolls! The plot thickens, eh? :) Will Latium go to war with Apulia? What will become of Atlan? Will Haemon find Aurora? Oh, I'll tell you next time...maybe haha I apologize for the delay, but my mom came to visit so I was distracted!

Thanks to AmyLNelson and klandgraf2007 for the sweet reviews :D

Amy: Ah! I managed to surprise the all-seeing, Amy :) I'll go ahead and do a little jig in honor of that rare feat haha I'm so happy you love that Damian is a traitor! Obviously I do too since I made it happen, and I totally understand what you mean about it being oddly more romantic that way. I really wanted his and Iliana's romance to be very different from Haemon and Aurora's though the same themes of deception and identity permeate the whole story. Awww you're playing favorites, are you? That's acceptable! After all you were in love with Hector, and Haemon is Hector's son so it makes sense :D I wonder what you think about what Haemon did in this chapter! Hmmm... How are plans for Paris coming along? Still so jealous, girl! xoxo

klandgraf: Hey! I take that as an odd compliment. If noting else, it was unexpected, and I wanted that soooo it's sort of a win ;) Hope you liked this chapter xoxo


	17. Appeal to A Queen

Chapter 17  
"Appeal to A Queen"

**Bovianum, Capital of Samnium  
****A Week Later**

Aurora was trembling like a leaf in the breeze, and with every step she drew closer to the gates, her weak knees threatened to yield and send her crumbling to the ground. Already she had risked everything to arrive on her enemy's doorstep and beg for sanctuary and leniency, and yet she had lost the most valuable asset who could make this mission worth any success: Haemon. A week she had travelled alone along the High Pass and held no company aside from a pack of wolves who had caught her scent and tracked her along the rocky path. She couldn't dare to sleep at night for this reason, needing to protect the horse and herself, with only the dagger Haemon had left among their packs to keep her safe. She had scarcely eaten, and at all hours the fear and anxiety wrought havoc on her insides, twisting and snarling them in constant pain, until she was certain the stress had worn an acidic hole in her stomach. Even now it burned and ached, and cold chills sprung up all along her pale arms and made her shiver noticeably. She halted to compose herself and adjusted the cloak around her shoulders. So many times during those long days, which felt like months of endless fear considering the wolves and guards nipping at her heels, she had considered surrendering. Not until she was forced to stand without him did she realize Haemon had been her strength: He pushed her when she was too frightened to continue, and he picked her up when she fell. He was the only reason she had ever made it so far, and knowing that she had lost him swept the ground out from under her with debilitating force. She hadn't cried though she wanted to. If Haemon hadn't come for her as he swore he would, then she could only assume he had been captured or killed. In light of this, she saw his "plan" more and more like a sacrifice. Had he knowingly given himself up so that she could escape, and if so, why?

The last question in particular haunted her thoughts. It all felt too familiar, and when she had dared to sleep in the light of day, the ghost of her memory awoke to remind her…

_She tried to scream, but Alix's hand was clamped firmly across her nose and mouth. His other arm was wrapped around her waist and holding her steady against him as he eased against the wall. Fires licked from torches in the main corridor and cast willowy, dark shadows along the edges. They shivered uneasily and threatened to draw back their cover and reveal the two small children huddling in one corner and awaiting a chance to flee. Mere paces from them Acaeus' body lay lifeless and twisted on the floor. His golden hair was stained from his own blood, pooling thick and black around him, and his dull, glassy blue eyes gazed across his shoulder with chilling vacancy. Two more men were dead by his feet, likely victims of his blade for her eldest brother had been a swordsman after their father, and as punishment, they had taken his hands so that he might be crippled and wander about the next life in humiliation and never to fight again._

_These were monster Aurora thought and was sure they were the ukai come from the forest and looking for life to feast upon. She couldn't stop shaking, and she wanted to run and hide in her mother's arms… but they had taken her too._

"_Don't look," Alix whispered in her ear, and Aurora struggled against him, wedging her small elbows into his ribs to make him release her. Her older brother held tighter, gripping so hard on her face that she couldn't breathe, and her tears pooled across his stocky fingers._

"_Where are they?" bellowed down the hall, and Aurora froze as the long shadow of a man stretched toward them. "Where have you hidden them?"_

"_They're children," her father growled back, so wounded, barren, and angry that all the blood drained from Aurora's face. She'd never heard her father sound like that. It was a shock of pure, icy terror through her. "Let them go. They can do no harm!"_

"_No," that cruel voice answered. "When dawn comes, you will have no heirs left."_

"_You have me!" Lycaon yelled out furiously. "Let them go!"_

_Aurora wanted to call out to him. No one could hurt her father. He was the Crown Prince. He was the strongest, bravest man in Apulia, so that all feared and adored him. They should run to his side, and he would protect them! She fought against her brother who only grappled back, and he pinched her nose so hard fresh tears sprung to her eyes. Immediately she drove her heel down on his toes, and the boy yelped in pain. It was like all the air was sucked from the hall—silent as if the walls had ears to listen too and reveal their hiding place._

_Then, all at once, their father roared, "Alix, Aurora, run!"_

_Heavy footsteps resounded their direction, and Alix took Aurora's hand and began a mad dash for the kitchen._

"_They're running for the back!" one man yelled from behind them, his voice echoing down the corridor._

_They twisted down another hallway, only to stop as they saw three guards sprinting toward them. Alix tugged on her hand and took them another direction, knowing the small halls and offshoots of their home better than the men chasing after them. They weaved through a servant's passageway, so narrow that they filed in one after the other and heard the men groaning as they ducked and squeezed in as well. Their burly armor and bodies slowed them down, and soon Alix and Aurora burst into the kitchen at the back of the home where they could scarcely see for the thick darkness and shadows. They hurried for the back door which would open to the chicken coop outside, when suddenly the main door to the kitchen was thrown open and a guard with a torch stepped inside, breathing heavily and searching about the space until his eyes landed on the two children holding hands._

_Alix stole a knife from the table in the center of the room, even as Aurora pulled him toward the door._

"_Brother," she whispered terrified and watched the man leap down the stairs and land before them. She tugged so hard on Alix's hand, he stumbled back a pace, but he shrugged her off._

"_Go, Aurora," he said sternly and assumed a stance that their father had taught him, feet spread and elbows open in preparation for a fight._

"_Alix—"_

"_I'm the oldest now," he interrupted, and his thirteen-year-old face was contorted with a decision he couldn't possibly understand._

_Hearing their conversation, the man snorted as if amused and looked at Aurora who nervously staggered back a few paces toward the door but appeared too scared to turn her back and leave her brother behind. He lunged for her, his fingers brushing her blonde hair, when he cried out suddenly and missed his mark. Blood trickled from a gash on his forearm, and not a moment later, Alix swung across and sliced open the man's thigh next. _

"_Go!" he yelled at Aurora before the man's heel collided with his chest and sent him flying back into the sacks of grain piled along one wall._

"_Alix!" she screamed._

_More guards came through the main door as well as those who had followed them through the servant's passageway, and Aurora barely registered their numbers before she turned._

_Through the door, past the chicken coop, into the forest, she ran. The black faceless trunks of the trees rushed past her until all was a blur of darkness and shadows, and she knew nothing but to race between their roots and up the rolling hills. Her heart beat so hard and so fast, it felt it might break through her chest. Her lungs and throat burned as she gulped down gasp after gasp. Her eyes pricked with tears, the lingering lines on her cheeks were icy cold, and her hair whipped around her. All was black. She had no sense of time, and when her foot caught on a rock and she felt hard onto her stomach, she didn't know where she was or how long she had run. Her cheeks were sweaty. Her legs felt like they were licked by flames, but a fresh burn sprung up in her elbows, knees, and forehead. She peeled herself away from the rocky terrain and hissed in pain. She got her feet under her but swayed and stumbled twice to keep her balance. _

Run_, she thought. _Run!

_Her breathing was uneven and hitching in her chest, and she realized with numb disconnect how she was shaking. She took a tentative step, and her knee gave. She groaned and tumbled onto the ground again, only to pick herself back up and try once more. She didn't notice the abrasions on her knees and elbows that were stinging and bleeding, and she only acknowledged the thin cut on her brow when the blood mixed with sweat and trickled into her eyebrow and eyelashes. She wiped it away, wincing as dirt pricked the wound, and reached the peak of the next incline where she turned around to grasp for her bearings._

_In the distance, on the horizon of the trees the black night sky was interrupted by a warm, soft purple glow like a bruise upon the heavens. Nearest the edge of the tree line, the sky blistered with flecks of orange and red, but the image was obscured by the black woods. She stood and watched until it was nothing but wisps of smoke against the dawn._

Aurora brushed her forehead lightly with two fingers where the thin, smooth scar still lay. It was invisible to most given her pale complexion, but in the summer months when her skin adopted a glow, the white wisp remained unchanged. She had forgotten the sacrifice her brother made, but her memories of that night were scattered bits and pieces like fragments of glass that could never properly be joined together again. Apparently her guilt at leaving Haemon behind had unlocked this latest sliver. She felt like a coward. She felt responsible. If she hadn't fought her brother, they might have been able to sneak outside together. If she hadn't let Haemon leave her, they would still be together. And yet each time she was the one who left unscathed. Her life was little more than a chase as she sprinted away from everything that terrified her. She wondered if she would run out of ground or strength first. Given her lack of food and sleep, the latter seemed more likely.

Already she felt so weak. She had spent the last of their money in an attempt to transform herself into something more fitting of her title rather than on food or shelter. She couldn't wander up to the gates and declare an audience with the king when she looked like a dirty peasant. She had paid an old widow to wash and mend her red gown as best she could, and the next day when she had returned, the old woman provided a bowl and cloth for Aurora to clean herself as well as a comb to untangle her hair. When she had emerged in her gown with her porcelain skin smooth and clear, her straw-colored locks tumbling across her shoulders and down her back, and her golden diadem in place, the old woman had nearly fallen to her knees. Aurora accepted that as a fortuitous sign, but still, she was wary. She had no chaperone, no guard, nothing but the old farm horse and a dagger to protect herself. Suppose the palace guards sent her away, or worse, took advantage of her solitude?

The pearls of her golden flower earrings clinked delicately with every step she drew, and every chime was a reminder of the man who had given them to her. Haemon's first gift to her, which she had arrogantly denied, but now she donned them with pride. She thought of the ring he always wore and wished she had that as well, for it was so dear to him and so emblematic of his complicated past. If he were dead, some guard would steal it and never know of its worth or its story. The thought unleashed a burst of aggravation to cut through her fear. Haemon had protected her and given himself up so that she might live to reach the city. Such a man was more than any woman could desire for a husband, and now, without him, Aurora had enough distance to realize her blind fortune. In light of this, she adopted a specific plan when she stepped before the palace gates.

"Halt!" one of the guards called to her, though it was unnecessary given the gate impeding her path to the entryway of the Samnite palace. He approached her with his spear at his side, bronze armor shining beneath the sunlight, and his helmet was shaped in a way she had never seen before with two slender pieces of bronze protruding up on either side like wings. The face of his helmet rounded up, and a small point rested between his brows under which his dark brown eyes flicked suspiciously across her features, seeming intrigued and confused to discover a woman was shrouded beneath the heavy cloak.

"What is your purpose?" he asked shortly, as if he had already resolved that any answer she gave him wouldn't be worth entry to the palace.

Hands shaking, Aurora drew back her hood. The morning light glinted off her golden adornments and her straw hair, almost making the two blend and compliment each other.

The guard's face fell, caught between disbelief and shock, and he said nothing.

"I request an audience with the king," she answered with all the strength inside her concretizing her tone and making it assertive and tenacious.

The man frowned uncertainly, glanced toward his partner who said nothing, and then looked at Aurora again. "By whose authority?"

"My husband's," she answered without hesitation. It felt like her skin was vibrating and shivering, but she forced herself to stand taller and straighter as if she could lengthen up her spine and stand eye-to-eye with this man.

"I do not see him," the guard pointed out, almost mocking as he searched beyond Aurora and her old horse beside her.

She showed no sign that his words unhitched her calm, authoritative attitude, and if anything, her shoulders squared more firmly. Behind this guise, he could not see how she buckled with fear, but this was her last resort. "He is Haemon, son of Aeneas, Crown Prince of Latium—a noble ally to your king. We were ambushed along the High Pass. My husband sent me ahead to protect me and to seek shelter and aid from his good friend, the King."

The guard's face flexed in confusion, and yet again, he looked to his partner who had now dared to step forward from his post at the opposite end of the gate.

"You claim to be a princess of Latium," the guard noted, not quite sneering but close enough to make Aurora's skin bristle, "yet what princess rides alone and unguarded?"

"I claim nothing," she snapped sharply, eyes sizzling as they turned on the man and pierced him with her fierce gaze, "and I do not answer to you, guard. Is this how your king accepts his allies with interrogations from men of your rank?"

They could beat her for her keen tongue, drag her off to a cell and lock her away, then rape or kill her if the thought provoked them… As soon as the words tumbled out of her lips, she held her breath and waited, heart thundering in her ears, to see if she had pushed the limits too far. She clung tighter to the dagger in her grip which was hidden within the folds of her cloak and kept her gaze pinned on the second guard to be sure she did not look the least bit contrite or uneasy. Simultaneously, she was trying to decide who to attack first if they charged at her, but neither man moved, less said a word.

She saw the moment of weakness and pounced to claim it with a swift attack. "My husband is an ally to your king who is ever threatened by war with Apulians. Would you risk losing Latium's support and incurring your king's wrath by turning me away?" She almost spat the words like venom, and her presence grew with each second to loom over these men like the queen she was born to become. They each assumed differing looks: one's face fell open while the other's hardened in concentration.

They glanced briefly at each other before they snapped and beat on the wood.

"Open the gate!" one yelled out.

The other bowed his head and stepped out of Aurora's path. The gate swung open behind them and revealed the grand entry up to the palace, and for a moment, Aurora's guise nearly fell. She was exhausted past her flesh and bones and down to her innermost core, and the sweet relief that washed over her as she was granted access threatened to unravel all the delicate threads and sinews that held her up. She forced herself to stand tall and straight, but she was trembling still as the nerves clung stubbornly to her body. They would fade with time, rest, and food, but none of these would be of immediate benefit to her. For now, she needed to rely on her strength of mind to carry her through. She didn't move until a guard took the reigns from her, and she started from her thoughts and realized the gate had finished its yawning. She stepped forward, surprised to discover how steady her legs held her. Every step threatened to send her crumbling to the ground and ruin it all, but she was stronger, stronger than she even thought she could be.

"Take the princess to the palace," the guard instructed one man on the interior who stood at attention and nodded stiffly, and then he turned to another. "Announce her presence to the king." The second man rushed off ahead of them to find the king.

"Princess," the first man said when her gaze turned to him, and he bowed respectfully. "Please follow me."

He hurried up the path ahead of her, forcing her to assume longer strides to keep pace, but somehow she realized it made her feel more powerful to walk with purpose and resolve. Even so, her mind plagued her with all the weak points in her impulsive plan.

_What will you say when the king discovers you are a princess of Apulia?_

She had no answer, but before her eyes, her lie had not truly been a deceit. Despite the lack of ceremony, she and Haemon behaved as husband and wife, and he had been captured or died to keep her safe. He was her protector and rightful match in that respect: She wanted to claim him.

_And when he realizes you were not attacked on the High Pass but betrayed by Apulia's bastard king?_

She had no time to consider that answer for the guard led her up the steps to the large palace atrium where a servant was waiting, bowed as well to the princess, and said, "My Lady, the king and his counselors are in the throne hall, but the queen will accept you, if you are not too weary from your journey."

"No," Aurora responded promptly. "I would like to speak with the queen, permitting it is of no inconvenience to her."

"Of course," the servant consented. "I will show you the way."

Perhaps this was only another barrier Aurora needed to cross. If the king still doubted her identity, he might not wish to spare his time on her until his wife had respectfully checked her credentials and smoothed over any diplomatic wrinkles. Such was often the responsibility of a queen, to play intermediary and ambassador, and Aurora, if anything, felt she was walking into a pit of snakes. One wrong look or answer could turn the queen against her and ruin her possibility of gaining help from the Samnites. They might abandon her, moneyless and alone, to whatever fate awaited her. The mere thought awoke the burning ache in her gut, and she fought a grimace of pain.

_No. You can't seem weak_.

She pushed aside the pangs littering her body and was guided deeper into the palace and toward the left pavilion which were the queen's quarters with an independent atrium, bed chamber, and such. There she met the Queen of Samnium, a woman not much older than herself with black hair as rich and shiny as the night sky and green eyes like emeralds. At her side stood two young girls as beautiful as the queen whom Aurora assumed where her daughters.

"Princess," the Queen said in greeting and smiled amiably, "I pray any trouble gotten at the gate was not more than can be forgiven. You must understand the unusual circumstances of your arrival."

Aurora bowed to the woman and adopted a smile much more at ease than she felt. "Yes, I'm only fortunate I could convince your men to let me pass, lest I be forced to find shelter elsewhere within the city."

"It is dangerous to travel alone as a woman and especially one of royalty," the Queen commented, a sly look of mistrust flickering through her green eyes, but she was once more the pleasant host when she turned to the two little girls. "My two daughters, Perse and Lais, were eager to meet a Princess of Latium and welcome you to our lands."

"And such beautiful girls they are," she answered with a smile at the two young princesses. "Aphrodite favors them, no doubt."

Neither princess blushed or grinned shyly as she had anticipated, and Aurora realized the girls had been raised aware of their beauty and perhaps arrogant of it as well. She feigned ignorance on this matter and turned to the queen who was smiling proudly at her daughters. At the very least her compliment had charmed someone.

"You're kind to notice, but let us sit. You must be exhausted from your journey," the Queen decided, and the women moved to a small side chamber reserved for receiving guests. A servant took her cloak, leaving Aurora to pretend she didn't notice the ragged edges and tears in her once breath-taking gown. Instead, she considered the neglected looms with weavings in various states of completion lined along one wall, and Aurora remembered how her mother had practiced weaving and begun to teach her when she was young. She never took to it. She didn't have the patience or adeptness of her fingers to be successful, but suddenly she wished she had given it a greater effort. It would have pleased her mother that she carry on the tradition.

"Forgive me," the Queen said once they were seated, and her lips flickered in a rehearsed, rueful look. "I was not aware the Crown Prince of Latium was married."

So it began. Aurora kept her stance, sitting up straight from her seat with her back straight and shoulders relaxed down to elongate her neck as she had been taught when she was young, and vaguely explained, "It was an arrangement within the last month."

"Oh," she muttered and flicked one eyebrow, "and you would travel along the High Pass so soon after?"

She said it kindly with the proper amount of curiosity to her tone, so that by all appearances, Aurora could find no insult in it, but she knew there was no kindness in her eyes. Only distrust.

Aurora confessed, "I'm afraid that the account I told your guards was not quite the truth…"

Subtly, the Queen's features narrowed but did not seem surprised. Perhaps Aurora's act was not as effective as she had hoped.

"I am Haemon's wife," she said, "and I am also a princess of Apulia."

"Convenient that you should neglect the latter title when you arrive in my lands, which your king and his father before him sacked and plundered," she countered icily, her green eyes so cold they froze the hairs on the back of Aurora's neck.

No matter how the agitation rose in her skin and how she shuddered still, Aurora would not let her calm guise falter. "Yes, I did not identify myself as a princess of Apulia given our countries' tense history, but I have come here in peace and to seek Samnium's aid."

The Queen couldn't stop her sarcastic smile and stared at Aurora incredulously. "What aid could Samnium wish to give an Apulian princess? My sole generosity is that I have allowed you to breathe in my home this long."

Her heart skipped a beat at the threat empowered by the Queen's stony expression and potent posture. "You are allies of Latium, my husband's—"

"_Recent_ allies," she acknowledged, "but you and I have much longer been enemies."

Swallowing thickly, Aurora realized Haemon's name could not protect her. She had walked into her enemy's arms, and there was no escape without their consent. Her only option was to continue speaking and to hope her purpose would surpass Samnium and Apulia's vendetta.

"I am not your enemy," she said. "Whatever war has been waged in my lifetime has been under the guidance of a false king."

"A false king perhaps," she interrupted and frowned, "and false pretenses as well. Your king attacked my people claiming that we sent assassins to murder Lycaon and his family with no proof and no reason to suspect us beyond rumors and his own desire for battle."

"You're right," Aurora agreed, and the Queen's face opened in surprise before she could stop herself. "Savas is the one who murdered my family, not Samnium or Latium or the Tribes of Osci."

She stiffened, and her attractive brow wrinkled with thought as she caught the insinuation.

Anticipating the question, she explained, "I am Lycaon's sole heir. Aurora, his youngest child."

"None survived…" the Queen whispered, realizing the significance of what Aurora was suggesting. A surviving heir of Lycaon: such was a powerful position to hold.

"Savas wished to use the bloodshed to advance his own agenda—to gain the throne and to go to war. Admitting that I survived did not help him accomplish either of those goals. He accepted me into his home to please the public and direct suspicion away from himself, but he kept word of my surviving a secret… until it benefited him."

She listened, but her face was strewn with doubt and suspicion. "Why have you come here?"

Aurora glanced at her lap where her hands were folded, and she considered the events which had precipitated her arrival. There was no better place to start than the beginning: "Haemon and his men came to Apulia to negotiate for my hand, but we were betrayed." She looked to the Queen again, no longer needing to force an act for the aggravation and insult the memory brought her gave her an overwhelming presence and powerful voice. "Savas sent his men to attack me and finish what he had begun years again, but Haemon saved me. We were forced to flee into the forest. We knew Savas would watch the paths to Latium, and so we chose to travel to Samnium, allies of Latium. We avoided capture until we reached Rytilä when Savas' men found us. Haemon sent me ahead of him and swore that he would find me along the High Pass." She realized her eyes were burning and pulsing, and she blinked to push away the ill-timed burst of emotion. She couldn't bear to look weak in front of this woman, but admitting that Haemon had sacrificed himself for her, that she had abandoned him, she couldn't keep her lip from trembling though her voice was remained strong a while longer. "That was seven days ago… I've come to Samnium to ask for protection. If Haemon," she paused and fought a fresh wave of guilt. "If he has avoided capture, he has promised me he will go to war with Apulia to defeat Savas and…"

Her voice broke off, she bit her bottom lip to still its quivering, but even so, the tears fell. She bowed her head to hide them and saw the drops land on her lap and turn the gown a darker shade like drops of blood on her. His death was on her. "Forgive me," she whispered and wiped away the tears with one shaking hand. His name, his face, his voice lingered in her mind to torture her weakened state, and she confessed, "I fear what they've done to him." Her eyes flickered shamefully toward the Queen, not even registering her expression, and once more to her lap. The tears fell. She was powerless to stop their charge and powerless to gauge how the Queen would take her rupture of emotion.

"There's nothing to forgive," the Queen commented quietly, and Aurora couldn't dare to look at her or hope that her words were sincere. She didn't realize the woman was watching her, green eyes brimming with sympathy. "A wife will worry without her husband."

Aurora's shoulders shook subtly, and she covered her lips with her hand to be sure no sound escaped. The words were daggers to her breast: She might pretend and say what she would, but they were not married. This concern, this guilt, this raw debilitating attack of emotions had nothing to do with marriage or the duty of a wife to worry about her husband. She was terrified that she would never see him again because she didn't know if she could fight without him. She wanted him at her side. He made her stronger. He made her brave. The thoughts threatened to shred what little self-control she had left, but she couldn't afford to crumple into a sobbing mess—not now, not yet.

Wiping at her eyes, she sucked back as much emotion as she could and tried to regain her composure so that she might face the Queen who hadn't said a word, whether out of compassion or disregard. Aurora couldn't tell, considering the woman's calm features, but she continued, "If I am given sanctuary within your walls, if Latium goes to war with Apulia, and if I return to the throne that is my mine by birthright, I swear to you that Apulia will never take arms against Samnium so long as both countries stand."

Her eyes shone with the sincerity of her vow, and the Queen appraised the mismatch orbs briefly, looking severe and torn. At length, she said, "It is not my decision to make but my husband's." She hesitated, still staring intently at Aurora as if searching for a flicker of duplicity, and finished, "But I am sympathetic to your plea. You will be under my protection until the King decides which course Samnium will take."

Aurora's lips parted in surprise, and she was the one to gaze at the Queen as if suspecting that her promise would shift to reveal some trick. There was no change. The woman was genuine on this front. A fresh wave of relief threatened to unravel her and send her shoulders sagging toward her lap. "You are too gracious," she said at last when she could regain her wits for the situation seemed impossible. They were sworn enemies meeting as if allies. Was it due to Haemon and his country's sway? She couldn't be sure, but she meant it when she said, "I am indebted to you for your kindness and generosity."

"Hold your praises," the Queen returned and did not share Aurora's enthusiasm. Rather, her lips pursed dryly with untold thoughts. "You still must face my husband."

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hi gorgeous gals! Sooo Haemon is still MIA. Uh oh! What will the king say when Aurora faces him? Next chapter Aeneas and Iliana have a heart-to-heart about Damian's fate, Alba Longa prepares for war, and I'll reveal what has happened to Haemon! We're getting to the good part, people :D

Thanks as always to AmyLNelson and klandgraf2007 for the sweet reviews!

Amy: Ah! It does give me pleasure to surprise you haha There are more twists to come (aren't there always? It's almost becoming predictable!). I agree that Haemon's actions were selfless in the last chapter, and I'm glad they came across that way. He can be a real dick, but he's a good guy when it counts. Clearly, Aurora is realizing her feelings for him, and in the next chapter you'll get a peek into Haemon's head :D Something is going up that will show where his head is at. I think you'll like it! Sorry you'll have to wait a bit longer to see what is going to go down with Damian and Iliana, but somethings will be decided next chapter :) You leave for Paris tomorrow (my time) isn't that right?! OMG I'm so excited for you! You're going to have so much fun! Hugs and kisses, and have a safe flight! xoxo

klandgraf: "Drama, suspense, and thrilling action." If I published this, and I need snippets for the book jacket, that would totally make it! :D Haemon and Aurora are not yet reunited, and it's been a week sooo that is quite awhile. So far you're right! Oooohhhh way to catch on to things! Clearly Aurora has some feelings deepening for Haemon now that she doesn't know what's happened to him :) You'll get a better picture of how Haemon feels next chapter haha I have to be all mysterious, ya know! Thanks for the sweet review, and I hope you had a great weekend! xoxo


	18. The King

Chapter 18  
"The King"

"Does my account bore you, Princess?"

Her mismatched eyes spun to peruse the lines of councilmen, the beautiful Queen of Samnium caught up in a frown, and her husband at her side whose aggravation had assumed a steady pace throughout this meeting but now flushed with the raise of his graying brows. Four, pale streaks interrupted otherwise robust and vigorous features—compliments of a bear, the Queen had explained to her one afternoon, which had almost taken his life during a pleasant hunting trip. One cut through his thick brow. Two more indented the bridge of his nose, one sweeping so close to the inner corner of his right eye that he was nearly blinded. The final one was the longest and deepest, cutting through his cheek and down across his lips to his jaw. Aurora often stared at the scars for they flexed and twitched as he spoke like they were telling an older secret without words, but the Queen had warned her he did not like others staring at the wounds.

For the moment, she managed to find his brown eyes and lied effortlessly, "No, My Lord. I was only considering—"

"The implications," the Queen finished for her, a meaningful bite to her tone, and offered a soft, endearing smile to her husband. "You must understand, My King, that she has been told a tale much different and removed from our own."

The smile was a spell, and the King's attention lingered on his young, beautiful wife before turning to Aurora calmer and more composed. "A tale of lies," he contested gruffly.

_By your eyes_, her mind deferred though her tongue didn't dare to form the words. He spoke of The Battle of Three Kings: Apulian, Samnite, and Umbrian. It had been the battle to end all battles, or so they had said until new grievances were raised, arms taken up, and war waged. Every country cooked its own version of the event, peppering it with details both real and imagined to gain sympathy and regard among their lands. Gallad, her grandfather, had won the battle… or so her father Lycaon had told her.

The King took up his relaying of the events again to pin point out the historical context for his supreme hatred toward Apulia. He was meticulous in a daunting way: No look was unnoticed, and he hounded for information. Such was the legacy of his rule—his strategy, sharp focus, and thoroughness were renowned in his lands, though Aurora's people had less flattering names for these characteristics. Thus far she had been in the palace of Samnium five days. Her only explanation for her continued stay was Queen Raia who had offered her protection and kept to her word. Each afternoon Aurora joined Raia in her atrium and through several conversations the women had fostered a truce if not the beginnings of an acquaintance. In any case, Raia was the closest ally Aurora had though she couldn't quite afford to allow anyone near to her.

Five days. Three meetings with the King. At every encounter, Aurora was overshadowed. The King spoke and lectured and discoursed, but he had yet to let the woman have a word of her own say. Given her good fortune that she was safe within the palace walls and not kicked out onto the gutters of filth, she held her tongue and felt her eyes lose focus as her thoughts wandered from the throne hall to Rytilä.

_"Swear to me."_

_ "I'll find you."_

That was the last she had seen him, and the brief exchange haunted her. She should never have left. She should have stayed and faced whatever fate awaited them. There was no peace in solitude and no sleep without knowing what had become of him. It was unfathomable really how she motivated herself to rouse from bed and face the day. Her recent plight had skewed her priorities so that sleep and food felt optional. Whatever drove her was much deeper and more powerful than those immediate pleasures. Yet she had been awakened at his side. No matter how she overlooked it, she slept like a babe at his side and remembered her appetite. She felt safe with him, not like an animal huddled in a corner and growling at anyone who dared to close. It was a rare indulgence for her, and she was almost spoiled by their brief time together. The lack of him felt so much heavier and empty now that she had known how she could surrender beside him without anxiety. If she saw him again… If she had the chance to face him in the stable again… Her mind fidgeted with the possibilities but couldn't dare to illuminate any of them. It would only torture her fragile state.

The large doors of the throne had been sealed tight, but they groaned loudly to life behind Aurora and interrupted the King mid-speech. She heard the rustling of fabrics and muttered words as those gathered stretched to see who would dare to interrupt a meeting of the King.

"What is this?" he snapped out across the hall.

Aurora turned with them though more delayed and slower given her heavy thoughts. She glimpsed exhausted across her shoulder, and her heart fell into her feet. She felt numb and tangled by her vision, and her eyes ached with effort to look and watch and understand…

He pushed through the doors, chestnut curls matted and dirtied, a mixture of blood and earth smeared across his arms, and his cloak swung shredded about his calves and missing a large section on one side. But her eyes were lost staring at his face. The dark beard had grown long since they left Apulia and masked the strong lines of his jaw so that she only knew beyond a doubt that it was him from the dark eyes, sharp and intent as a hawk.

"I tried to stop him!" a guard answered his king while running in after Haemon's long strides. The Alban Prince didn't even falter the slightest.

"Seize him!" the King roared as this stranger strode into his hall.

Eight guards from the edges of the hall reacted and rushed to take the Alban Prince.

"No!"

Aurora's voice called out as unyielding and forceful as the King but sounded hollow and washed out in her ears. Without hesitation, she rushed to meet Haemon, seeing the guards circling from the edges, and terror struck her like lightening to her core to think she could lose him again. Her arms took his shoulders in their grasp, her body pressed against his like a shield, and she buried her fingers into his hair and clung to the edges of his borrowed armor. She held so tightly she felt she could stretch herself and wrap around him and protect him, even knowing how small she was at his side.

"I thought you were dead," she whispered hoarsely, and the juncture of all her worst fears and his reassuring presence threatened to unleash a fresh assault of tears.

Only then did she feel his arms thread around her, and unconsciously she laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

"I didn't have a horse," he answered, and his voice was gravel in his throat. Such a simple explanation for five days of horror.

He needed water Aurora realized and lifted her head once more like she could call it forth. He needed to wash. He needed food. He needed to rest. All these thoughts spun through her mind, but she found his gaze without searching for it. The dark eyes were heavy, opaque with weariness and pain, and something else was revealed to her.

"You're hurt," she noted and stepped back to look at him, but his arms held her captive.

"Say nothing," he commanded under his breath, and his gaze now strayed past her to the guards with spears brandished around them and waiting for the command to impale them both and set their corpses outside to rot.

He needed to appear strong. She could understand that, but her arms were stubbornly tangled around him like she could hold him from harm. He tugged at her elbow to release himself, but she dug her fingers in deeper. She needed him to understand.

"I'm so sorry," she pressed, short and abrupt, and Haemon turned to her immediately looking surprised. In the sights of his chestnut eyes, she continued earnestly, "I'm sorry I left you. I should never have left you."

The dirt collected in the lines of his face, deepening his frown, and his gaze simmered as if annoyed with her apology. He bent his face closer to her until their noses almost brushed, and this near, his gaze was electric. "We will speak of this later."

Her lips parted, but no sound escaped them.

He exhaled shortly through his nose and noticed the stain of dirt on her cheek from laying her head against his armor. Swiftly, he brushed his knuckles against her cheek, only smearing the dirt and adding a bit more from his hands, and there was something laughable and beautiful about her eyes staring lost up at him, her skin so pale and fragile he was angry she had not taken care of herself, and that dirty smudge across her cheek. He didn't know if he should reprimand her or take her.

"Later," he repeated distantly and tore his gaze away from her to the King once more who had stood from his throne and descended the short stairs in front of them.

"Haemon?" the King wondered and frowned as he dared closer.

"Deidus," Haemon returned sternly, and at last Aurora released him so that he could step forward almost brushing the edge of his chest plate against the spears around them. His gaze flickered toward the weapons and then back at the King. "Hoping to kill me?"

"If I want you dead, it had better be my hand!" he said, but for the threatening words, a grin broke out across his face, mangled in the scars on his face. "Stand down!"

The guards immediately abandoned their battle stances and parted for the King to approach closer, Haemon meeting him along the way.

"I didn't recognize your ugly features beneath the filth…"

"Your eyes are going."

The King grunted and acknowledged, "So you're alive. I'd begun to think Savas and his whipped dogs had caught up to you."

"Not yet," Haemon said and smirked.

"It was noble of you to send your wife ahead."

"Occasionally I make a wise decision."

Here, the King's attention strayed to glance at Aurora standing at Haemon's side. Her borrowed grey gown was stained with dirt from Haemon much like her features, but the King's scarred features gave no indication as to how he felt about their reunion. He looked to the Alban Prince again.

"An Apulian?" he said as if questioning Haemon's "wisdom."

"Yes," the Prince answered bluntly.

Again, Deidus glimpsed briefly at Aurora, less to care if she heard their conversation than to size her up. "I have daughters."

"Your oldest is six."

"Six more years, and she'll be a pretty prize for one man."

"Not for me," he said without apology, and the King grumbled inaudibly.

"You're fortunate you arrived today. Another day or so, and I'd thought to have her killed."

Aurora's blood ran cold, though she'd had the intuition her days were limited in the Samnite palace.

"It is fortunate," Haemon agreed. "I plan to go to war with Apulia, but Samnium is along the way."

"Peace, my friend," Deidus said and lifted his hand, palm outward. "You know of our distrust toward Apulians. It was not a personal offense."

"She is my wife. Any more personal, and you'd have to stab me yourself." The Prince frowned, and he assumed that stance of ultimate authority Aurora had seen him capable of as if he could project the influence of presence across a space. "I expected that title alone would grant her a warm welcome into your home."

"And she has received one," Deidus countered, ignoring Aurora's hard stare. "You see she is untouched. No harm has come of her."

"What I see is a woman called to a trial to answer for the faults of her forefathers," Haemon said sharply, and Aurora couldn't halt the look of alarm that passed across her features.

She looked to Queen Raia who too had descended the stairs and stood near enough to hear the men. Her green eyes held no lies, and Aurora might have kissed both her hands were they near enough. Raia was the only reason she was alive.

"You're mistaken, Prince. It is only a meeting. The Princess asked to speak with me, and she has."

"You've not allowed me to say a word in my defense!" Aurora countered before either man could say a word, but the sadness that had numbed her these long days was gone. She was furious. "Three times you've called me before you to lecture me on the crimes committed against your people when I came in search of safety and to offer you peace. The Queen is the only one who has listened to me."

"You claim to be a daughter of Lycaon," the King growled back shortly. "No child of Lycaon breathes today."

"I do."

"These lies!" Deidus said, this time looking at Haemon though he pointed to Aurora. "How can I bear her blatant lies?"

"You won't listen to the truth!" Aurora hissed angrily, and Haemon barely turned his head to consider her over his shoulder. In his face was a warning. She bit her tongue sullenly but did not back down from his side.

"She is Lycaon's heir," Haemon said to Deidus, and the King snorted with derision.

"You've been fooled, Prince! You've not been in these lands so long as I have. You do not know the silver tongues of the Apulians."

"Enough!" Haemon barked gruffly and took another step toward the King. The guards flexed instinctively around them, but the Prince seemed immune to their presence. "I know the woman I took from Apulia. I know the legacy she bears. If you do not trust her word, then hear mine. She is Lycaon's heir… And I will march on Apulia and take back her throne from the bastard king who claims it now."

The tension wrought between them so sharply it almost crackled between their locked regards.

Haemon searched the older man's scarred face and wondered, "Will you march with me?"

The scar across his cheek and lips trembled with thought and agitation, seeming like he might order his execution, but the King turned away dismissively and paced toward his throne.

"I must speak with my councilmen," he called back toward Haemon. "Go. Wash. Rest. We'll discuss this tonight."

Haemon answered his back, "I'll await your response. There's no time to be wasted."

Deidus turned and repeated, "Go. You are in my lands, Prince. I will answer your request when I see fit."

This time the Prince conceded, however petulantly, and he left the hall with Aurora at his side. She partly expected the King to call for her to remain, but it seemed Haemon's presence had ended whatever trial or meeting was occurring, to her relief. They made for Aurora's borrowed quarters, still under the guise of a married couple, and since no other shelter had been offered to the Prince. His pace was swift and curt as if agitated, and Aurora found herself almost trotting beside him to keep pace. With every step, his features sagged deeper and tangled with dirt and sweat, and the Princess couldn't understand whether it was fury or something else.

As soon as they entered her quarters, he dismissed the servants with a rough snap, "Out!"

The tone was akin to a whip, and the servants appropriately scattered with as much haste as they could manage. The door had barely closed behind the last of them when Haemon staggered, and unconsciously Aurora braced his side and wedged her shoulder under his arm. His weight swung her direction, and her knees shuddered with the effort not to buckle under his brawn. She pushed back with all the strength she could muster and helped him steady atop his feet.

"Bed," he commanded shortly, and the pair lurched and stumbled toward the bed with as much grace as a drunken cripple.

Aurora helped him however she could, but she could hardly handle his size and weight. Still, she tried and did not release him until he sat clumsily atop the mattress. His body sagged with relief to be supported, but his gaze was wandering, rolling from side to side in a way that she didn't understand. He breathed heavily, and Aurora remembered his wound and realized it was more than he had suggested.

Without hesitation, she tore away the knotting at his neck and allowed his dirty cloak to fall limp onto the bed behind him. Her fingers addressed the latching on his chest plate next and struggled to unravel the hitches. Her dexterity was abandoned with her calm guise, and her concern made her awkward and slow. She drew a steadying breath, gritted her teeth, and forced the leather to yield even as one of her nails broke with it. The flare of pain was minute and easily overlooked when she took the heavy chest plate and began to lift it from his body.

"Help me," she commanded shortly, and with his dwindling strength the largest piece of armor was removed and landed on the floor with a loud clatter that didn't register in Aurora's mind.

She yanked at his stained undershirt and pulled it over his head and down his long arms. His bare chest was revealed to her, dirty and sweaty, but otherwise she could see no lesion. Her hands walked across his arms and chest, searching and feeling for the slightest interruption in his skin, but there was nothing to be found.

His curly head hung heavy, his forehead rested on her shoulder as she tended to him, but as with everything else, she didn't notice until he spoke so near her ear she almost startled. "You were afraid for me."

"Where?" she asked impatiently and unlaced his sandals in the interim to give her shaking hands a purpose.

"You thought I had died," he continued as though deaf to her concerns.

"Where are you injured?" Aurora countered, having removed each of his sandals, and now she addressed the last layer of clothing around his waist.

He lifted his head and swung back where he was on level with her face. His dark eyes were watery with exhaustion, but they seemed focused alone by this sole realization he had stumbled upon. "You felt guilty."

"Yes," she answered bitterly, aggravated that he wished to have this conversation, and stared him down with increasing frustration that tore away any sense of self-awareness that she held. "You're all that I have—and I'm terrified of being alone… Please. Tell me where you're hurt."

"I know," he muttered roughly from his chest and bent forward until his forehead rested against her own.

She gripped to his knees to keep from bending back with the burden and felt her skull blaze with the pain of bone against bone. She stared up into his eyes, so close now she could only focus on them and nothing else.

"I had to protect you," he continued, his voice losing its momentum but stubbornly speaking all the same.

She felt his breath sear her lips. They were trembling, and her vision blurred even as she strained to focus on him. "I don't care if you protect me," she admitted in a barren tone. "I just want you to stay with me."

His nose crashed clumsily into her own, and she winced only to have the sting soothed over by his lips on hers. She stretched up, fighting against the weight of him bearing down on her, and kissed him brazenly, unleashing nearly two weeks worth of frustration and fear, all cut away by the sight of him. Her lips parted against his, wanting more, nibbling and kissing as she wanted him to do, but he was slow and distracted.

"Please," she pleaded directly into his mouth, and finally he relaxed away from her and revealed the bandage tied around his upper thigh.

There was the missing part of his cloak, and she unraveled it to see the messy wound, two swollen slits on either side of his thigh—an arrow's mark. The wound was nestled in the outer edge of his thigh. It would have gone through and through had it not been tangled up in his sinewy muscle. The fletching and end had been torn off, but there was still something keeping the wound from healing and undoubtedly causing him great pain.

"There's still something inside," she gaped in alarm for the wound was red, bloody, irritated, and swollen. Pungent puss spilled from the edges, and her lips curled unconsciously.

"I couldn't lose the blood," he answered, "and I needed to move." He swallowed and rested his palms behind his hips to help support his weight. "When I tried, it had worked deeper inside. It broke. It needs to be cut out."

It had probably taken all of his strength to walk into the palace and stand before the King, and she stared at his face, now mangled in pain, with awe and disbelief.

"You need a healer," she said and stumbled to her feet, but he caught her wrist and held tightly.

"No."

"Haemon," she said sternly, aggravated by the time that had already been wasted, "this is more than a cut. You need help."

"Yes," he agreed but did not release his grip on her. "You must do it."

Her jaw fell open at the mere thought of what it would require, and she couldn't even stomach the violent images sprung from her imagination. Her stomach flipped, and she looked away from him and toward the door.

"I can't…"

"You must." He pulled on her wrist—hard—making her turn to look at him, at the severity in his face. "We are here alone. No guards. No friends. Alone."

"The King is your ally—"

"A king only feels allegiance to himself." He swallowed and looked even wearier, weaker than she had ever seen him. "He can't know. He'll see an opportunity."

A cold sweat gathered across her brow and the edges of her mouth, and her flesh felt chilled and weak. It was an odd sensation to face when previously she had been so electric with the desire to help him.

"Aurora," he said and seemed to pierce through her reluctance. "I need you."

She stared at him, wide-eyed and terrified, but the look morphed as he felt her other hand cup his grip on her wrist. She nodded.

‡‡‡

The mattress depressed with the added weight seated upon the edge, alerting Iliana to her unannounced visitor, but she could estimate well enough without turning or speaking who had come to her.

"Your mother never told you how I kidnapped her when we were young," Aeneas commented in a soft tone and folded his hands comfortably, gazing off toward the door, while his youngest child pretended he didn't exist. He peeked at her with his pale blue eyes to check that she hadn't stirred in slightest and exhaled slowly.

"I was brash then," he recalled idly and let his eyes trail across the familiar angles of the room. "Too clever for my own good, and my lies had won me favor, bets, and women."

He rolled his jaw, reflecting back on those days, when his arrogance made him immortal. He would have run into battle without his armor if the mood struck him, all the while reminding the soldiers charging him that he couldn't be killed. He was the son of Aphrodite. The gods favored him. He smirked and shook his head slightly. If he were to meet his former self, he'd give the young fool a black eye to match his dark intentions. He'd been able to wile away so much on his good looks alone.

"Your mother, Myrina, she was the only one who saw through my tricks. The only woman who could outwit me, and I lavished off of it. She never bowed to me. She never apologized. She was this fiery ball of sharp wit, and I wanted her—I wanted her to condemn, object, and criticize me the rest of my miserable days."

Again, Aeneas peeked at his daughter, but Iliana had Hector's stubbornness and hadn't budged.

"Do you know why?" he asked rhetorically. "Because she was the only person, I thought, who could see me. Not Aeneas the Prince of Dardania. Not Aeneas the son of Aphrodite. Not Aeneas the trickster and bedder of women… She knew I was an arrogant, pigheaded ass the moment she saw me. I loved her for that."

"She hated you," Iliana whispered softly, and Aeneas perked up his pale eyebrows.

"Oh, so I do have an audience?"

The Princess was silent again, and Aeneas smiled.

"Yes, she hated me," he admitted, "and I didn't care. She made me want to be better. No one had ever had that effect on me or held me accountable for what I did or said. She made me feel like a man with no title and no fortune. She made me fight to prove my worth to her… So I kidnapped her."

"To prove your love for her?" Iliana clarified sarcastically. "It's something a god would do, not a man."

She might have Hector's stubbornness, but she also had Myrina's tongue. It could never stay still for too long.

"I didn't say I was magically changed by my love for her," he countered. "I made my share of mistakes. Many, many mistakes."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Aeneas scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Because what I did was wrong. I didn't understand how to love someone. I was selfish and proud. I knew she loved another man, and I didn't want to lose her. I thought I could make her happy, care for her, offer her everything she didn't have… But I only hurt her."

"She forgave you."

"Yes, and I was able to love her and place the coins on her eyes when she passed… I want you to know that I understand. Eros shoots blindly, and sometimes the effects aren't beautiful and perfectly constructed stories. Sometimes it is painful and work and feels like you're climbing Mount Olympus."

Finally, Iliana turned so that her shoulders rolled back onto the bed, and she could look back at Aeneas. "Then why are you punishing him?"

"Because you're my daughter," he answered immediately.

"And you've never let a man come near me!" she snapped and sat up in a flourish. "You've never let me even try to love or to be loved, and the first time I find someone who cares for me and wants to take me for his own for the rest of his life… You lock him away and torture him!"

"He isn't imprisoned for loving you!" Aeneas countered before he could catch his temper. He looked away and gathered his calm, answering to the wall, "He hurt you, Iliana. He could have killed you…"

"It was an accident! You heard him! He told me everything. He had no reason to do that. He's wrought with guilt, and you know it!"

"I'm trying to protect my family and my city. He's Menelaus' son. You may not remember what that name meant to Troy and its lands, but I do."

"Menelaus never claimed him! He didn't sail across the seas to Troy!" Her chocolate eyes were wide and almost frenzied staring at Aeneas. "I don't care that he's Menelaus' son. I don't care about Troy. This is my home, and I love him…"

"You said you never want to see him again," Aeneas recalled stiffly, trying to keep the disapproval from his tone. In theory he could understand that she had the least stake in Troy, but he disliked that she would dismiss her past and heritage so quickly. It was a mistake of youth to abandon the long line that came before you.

"I…" Iliana's eyes fell, her shoulders sunk, and her body was concave with defeat. "Whatever had flourished between us… It will never resume. We'll never see each other the same. We'll never be able to overlook the things that have passed and were said." She exhaled heavily and glanced at Aeneas, dark eyes burning with sincerity. "I want him to have a chance at a life away from here. I want him to be able to move on. I can't offer him that."

A beat of heavy silence passed between them before her father asked gently, "And what of you?"

Iliana looked at her lap where the lines of her dress had twisted around her hips and thighs and hugged the shape of her curves. Her belly was flat between, and she felt no sense of worth or attachment to the possibility between her hips. She didn't yearn for a lover. She didn't yearn for a husband or a family.

Turning away from Aeneas, she lay down again and answered, "I want to be left alone."

‡‡‡

She adjusted the pillow beneath her head, pushing the padding up to support the weight of her temple, and brushed her blonde hair back from her shoulders. The candles about the room flickered in the chill gusts within the palace, and she edged closer to his side until her breasts brushed the edge of his calf and she could place her lips to his ankle if she wished. Instead, she curled inward and tilted her face down to stare across the lines of his naked body shrouded by a thin sheet and to his upper body propped up on pillows at the head. His eyes were closed, and his chest slowly rose and fell with the waves of his deep breath. She had washed him from toe to nose, even his hair which required her drying it with a cloth as much as she could to keep away the chill, and she had trimmed his beard so that it neatly contoured to the lines of his jaw and neck. Aside from his pallor and the unseen gnarled wound in his thigh, he looked like the man she had met in the Apulian palace weeks again. And yet different still. Her gaze trailed along the curves of her body matched against his side and to his hand resting heavy and comfortable on her thigh. The gold ring glinted in the candlelight. She looked at Haemon's features unchanged and leaden with sleep and then once more to the ring.

Aurora snaked her hand down from beneath her head and carefully laid it atop his own. She checked his face, but as before, there was no change. Her fingers curled around his palm, sliding her hand gently beneath his, and still, he did not move. Ever so carefully she took hold of the ring and slid it down his finger. At the swell of his knuckle, her slow progress halted, and she bit her lip, stared at his sleeping face, and tugged. The ring slipped over his knuckle. Haemon's features twitched, but nothing more came to pass. With the excitement of a thief, she pulled the ring from his finger and brought it up to her face to inspect the worn edges and warped band. Its age was evident. The face was beginning to brown and obscure the embossed seal, and she ran her thumb across it to better tell its shape. It was warm from his finger, and she thought again on the story he had told her of his parents meeting.

"What are you thinking of?"

His voice rumbled up his sleep-oppressed chest like thunder grumbling among the heavens, and yet Aurora almost jumped from her skin. Her eyes darted guiltily toward his face to find his lids parts, though heavy, and his chestnut gaze observing her.

"I thought you were asleep," she murmured, trying to ignore the flush warming her cheeks.

"And so you took my father's ring."

"I was only curious…" she continued, chin dipped toward her chest, looking at him contritely from beneath her lashes. She rolled the ring between her thumb and forefinger and then held it out for him to take.

Haemon glanced at the ring and then her face again. "Then look at it," he said dismissively, so calm and even that she realized he wasn't angry.

She brought it back to her chest and continued twisting it between her fingers. She slid it onto her thumb, but it was still too big to be worn. She oddly liked that and tried it on her next finger where it was even larger, and she smiled as the sensation recalled an old memory.

"My father had a ring like this," she said and watched how the gold glinted in the dull light. "He would let me wear it sometimes—to distract me if he needed to speak with his councilors. I was always fascinated with them. He'd only ever wear the same two, and I thought they must be special for him to have them, like they were magical or held a piece of him."

She smiled wider at her childish naivety and glanced to see Haemon still watching her. She continued fidgeting with the ring and watched it rotate in her grip until every side was warmed with her touch.

"They burned our home after… I had run into the woods, and I could see the flames. I stood there all night watching everything I knew dissolve to ashes." She was lost watching the ring's revolutions and muttered, "I wish I had grabbed something to remember them…"

"It wouldn't have helped," Haemon commented at last, and she looked distrustfully to him. "When I wear that ring, and I look it, I see my father being dragged behind Achilles' chariot and to the enemies' camps. I don't see his glory, only his death."

Unconsciously, her brow furrowed at the glimpse into his mind and she wondered, "Why do you wear it?"

"It reminds me… You never abandon your family—never."

His words hammered into her breast, and she bowed her head in shame with how they pinpointed her fatal flaw.

"What?" he prompted to see the shift in her demeanor.

Aurora barely shook her head but stubbornly kept her face hidden away.

"Look at me, Aurora."

She bit her lip and defeatedly turned her face to peer at him where her eyes glistened with the tears pooling in them.

He frowned, less disappointed than aggravated, and he commanded curtly, "Come here."

His tone left no room for disagreement, and she had no strength left in her after the trials of this day to defy him. She tucked the ring in her palm and gathered herself up to her knees, the pale sheet unfolding her naked skin underneath, and she drew closer to him until he grasped her elbow and tugged, sending her off balance and collapsing against him. She tried to adjust herself, blushing as she felt her naked flesh spill across his chest. Simultaneously his arms corralled her and held her captive until she abandoned her brief struggle and looked at him with face flush and eyes glittering in the dim light.

"You're upset because you left me, and you feel guilty for what happened to me," he said, still frowning deeply, but his voice was calm.

"Yes," she confessed, though it was only part, and turned her face away. The thought of Alix facing those men alone bladed through her, and she cringed.

"Look at me," he demanded again.

She glanced at him from the corner of her tearful eyes but would not face him fully.

Aggravated with this, he took her chin and forced to her to turn to him once more so that they were eye-to-eye. "I sent you away to protect you. It was my choice. You did not abandon me."

"I should not have left you," she muttered automatically, but Haemon gripped her chin more tightly to silence her.

"What would you have done if you had stayed? I wouldn't have been able to fight looking back and trying to protect you. We both would have been captured, and we'd most likely be hanged now or sitting in a dark dungeon awaiting execution."

"You almost died," she whispered, faintly aware the tears were falling down her cheeks and slipping across his fingers holding her chin.

"This?" he said and referenced his leg. "I've dealt with worse, and I'm not dead. Yes, much could have turned for the worse, but it didn't. There's no reason to cry or to feel guilty. You did what I asked you to do. You survived."

Her eyes looked down at his chest rather than facing his barren gaze. The words seemed to ill placed so as to almost seem mocking.

"You traveled the High Pass alone. You convinced your enemies to welcome you into your home. You faced a foreign king alone…" He shook his head and tilted her chin back until her mismatched eyes found him again. "Do you not see how strong you were?"

"I didn't feel strong," she murmured earnestly. She had been sick with worry and fear.

"You were. I thought I would find you along the High Pass, not in the Samnite king's throne hall."

At last, he released her chin and brushed back a stray strand of blonde hair draping across her brow.

"Fleeing captivity suits you," he acknowledged. "You've grown braver and stronger."

Aurora focused on the indentation of the ring in her palm rather than his kind words. Perhaps it was the exhaustion or the weight of the day that made him so lenient… Her eyes dared to look at him. Or perhaps it was their separation that gave him perspective as it had her.

He added, "Though you haven't eaten or slept since we parted it looks."

"Barely," she admitted. "I didn't have you around to pester me about it."

His eyes narrowed subtly, and his brief smile flickered out and died. "You don't eat or sleep when you're afraid… I don't want you to be afraid."

She was the one to smile tentatively, and she revealed, "I'm not afraid with you here."

"I promised I would protect you."

"Not because you can protect me," she corrected, nervous and excited by the prospect of an honest conversation between them, and she added the final note, "but because I'm not alone."

An abrupt calmness swept through her, kindled by the depth of his eyes absorbing what she had said, but rather than soothing and pacifying her, she felt electrified and brazen. His features widened with surprise when she dauntingly straddled his waist, her knees bracing his hips, and the length of her naked torso and breasts unraveled before his gaze. Her toes brushed the bandage on his thigh, and without hesitation, he gripped her knee and wrenched it up until her foot was flat on the mattress, her other knee still curled against his side. She had braced herself with her hands on his chest, but the same ones swept up to cup his trimmed beard and hold him for the assault of her lips on his own. They parted. The increasingly agitated breath exchanged back and forth. He cupped her thigh, running his hand along the smooth length; he bit her lower lip and reminded himself of its soft texture in his grip.

"Wait," she mumbled against his lips, and for a moment his mind didn't register the command. He was feasting on her supple mouth, and his body was waking with how long since he had tasted them. Her eyes closed, she exhaled indulgently, and she was caught up in the spell of him.

"Haemon," she tried again when he released her lip to take her chin and jaw. "Please. I don't want to lose this."

Her hand uncurled between them to reveal the golden ring in her possession. He swiftly plucked it from her hand and set it on the bedside table with a muted clatter but did not seem to even notice or care what he did with it. She was almost startled; she rarely saw him without it, but she had no opportunity to consider the implications when he took hold of her and forced her to him, nibbling on her lips until her body caved atop him. His hand tangled in her hair, holding her and guiding her where he devoured her as he desired, and she was flustered with his ministrations shuddering throughout her body. She impatiently tore back the sheets separating them with a burst of want. His palm cupped her waist. She stretched through her spine to hold his lips and obey his hand drawing her back.

The chill night winds swept through the windows and killed the final flickering candles.

‡‡‡

The bolt retracted bluntly, and a moment later the door swung open. Damian lifted his head and winced at the light filtering in from the exterior. It felt like endless nights that he had not seen the light. The torch was too bright, and he groaned for it seemed the flames were licking at his eyes and burning through to his mind. A figure stepped closer, though Damian couldn't make out any defining characteristics while his sights adjusted and he blinked blindly to regain his vision.

At last he could see through the darkness, but the face that met him blindsided him even further.

"I come on behalf of my daughter," Aeneas spoke after having passed the torch the guard outside so that the light accentuated his outline standing tall in the doorway. "And my family and my city."

So it had come. He'd lost count of the days, but he'd sensed his time was near. "Which city, King?" Damian asked.

The healer had visited him as Iliana had promised. His wound was healing. The infected skin had been cut away. He had been given water and food. His body felt weak from crouching and sitting at all hours, but otherwise he was strong. He felt like he was a hog being fattened up before slaughter.

"Both," Aeneas answered as evenly.

"Killing me will bring you no vengeance… Menelaus does not claim me nor know of me." It was less a plea for mercy than a statement. He couldn't give them what they needed. He had no power.

"The same blood flows through you as does him. That is temptation enough for my sons."

"And not you?"

"I would kill you for placing a blade to my daughter's throat. Your heritage is an added reward."

Damian gave no response. He didn't deny he deserved punishment for what he had done to Iliana, and he bowed his head to his fate. But it evaded him a while longer.

"You are more cunning than you claim –to attach yourself to my daughter, thinking you could bring yourself among our ranks, and you played your part well, Spartan. Even now she begs me to spare your life."

"She's young," Damian acknowledged, once charmed by her innocence and optimism. "She doesn't realize my fate has been sealed. I am dead whether by your hand or another's."

"You welcome it," Aeneas observed given his frank tone.

Damian glanced at him from beneath his heavy brow and looked away. "I have no life awaiting me if I leave this room. There is no place for me in Latium, nor Sparta."

"There's no need to keep your act with me. You would be a fool not to rush to Menelaus' ear."

"Yes," he agreed, "but I would not."

The Alban King drew nearer then. His sandals crunched on the straw and dirt floor, and he squatted to be on level with the prisoner who rewarded him by looking into the King's face. Aeneas did noting but say, "I don't believe you're so noble."

Damian frowned, staring treasonously into the Aeneas' eyes, and replied, "I don't care what you believe."

"Why?"

The blacksmith frowned. He was being baited almost with the prospect of his own death and instead forced to carry on a conversation with the King. Biting his tongue against more acidic responses, he said, "Present circumstances excluded, Alba Longa has been the first city to accept me since my birth…" He wet his dry lips and admitted, "The only chance I have to prove my loyalty to these lands and to your daughter is to die."

Aeneas said nothing, and Damian was tired of whatever game they were playing. "Slow or swift, I will go to Hades. It is your decision when."

"My daughter has begged me to free you," the King commented. "I cannot allow that, but I can offer her some piece of solace."

Finally, Damian understood and offered the King a weary smile. "Kill me and tell her I've left… Clever trick."

"She'll be able to live her days without your blood on her hands, and you'll never have the chance to disappoint her or destroy my family."

She'd think he had abandoned her without a word or even a glance. She would be devastated, but she was young still. These wounds would have time to heal. She could find a better man to live out her days beside, and he would never be tempted to ruin her happiness by arriving unannounced. Damian's black eyes noted the hilt of the blade at the King's side and nodded. It was a fair trade.

"Let me die on my feet—not on the floor like a coward," he requested and looked at the Alban King.

Aeneas took each of Damian's arms, his wrists tied behind his back, and helped the blacksmith to his feet where he staggered uneasily to regain his balance considering his weakened state. He found the will to stand tall, spreading his feet to ground himself, and his fingers curled to hold on to the rope binding his wrists. He was ready.

Aeneas drew his blade, the same one Damian had forged for him, and the blacksmith smiled at the trick of fate. Killed by his own blade. Somehow he knew this was how it should be.

Damian swallowed thickly. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as if he could anticipate Thanatos' chilly presence waiting to catch him when he fell. He shrugged his shoulders lose of their tension and stood taller still, all the while looking Aeneas in the eye and feeling stronger to know he would face his fate like a man.

Aeneas took the hilt in both hands, twisted, and pulled the blade back, ready to pierce Damian through the chest.

The blacksmith nodded his thanks: A swift, clean death was not often offered among his kind. He held tighter to the rope, needing to grip something for a reason he couldn't quite name. The tension between had assumed its peak like a bow pulled to its fullest reach. Staring in the King's blue eyes, he saw the end in sight. It felt noble, sacrificing himself for a woman like Iliana. It was more than he deserved, and he welcomed it.

All at once, the King charged. Damian braced himself, but rather than the slice of pain as a sword penetrated his chest, he was thrown back against the wall behind him and almost fell to his feet for the shock and surprise that make him stiff and unresponsive. Aeneas grabbed his arm to hold him steady and growled through his teeth, "Prove your loyalty with your life, not your death. Fight and earn the trust of these people."

With that, he spun the numb blacksmith around and sawed apart his binds. Damians' hands fell limp to his sides, tingling and pulsing as the blood flowed unhindered into his fingers, but he left them untended and twisted to face the King again.

Breathless, confused, he wondered, "Why are you doing this?"

Aeneas sheathed his blade, and though he looked furious and rueful, he answered proudly, "Because I am a son of Troy, and unlike your father who killed every one of my brothers and sisters, I know mercy."

The King turned from him then and strode for the open door, but Damian spoke to his back, "I hear we will go to war."

Aeneas paused in the threshold, wondering briefly how a prisoner could hear such rumors, but even guards would gossip especially with a war on the horizon. Savas would pay for betraying him.

"Yes," the King answered curtly.

"I want to fight," Damian responded, and Aeneas glanced over his shoulder at the bastard son of his sworn enemy.

"You will."

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hey lovelies! How about that for a chapter! :D I'm sorry for the delay in my updating. I'm in a very busy time unfortunately. But hey! Haemon's back, and Damian's released. Hmmmm... I wonder what will happen next ;)

Thanks to ZabuzasGirl and klandgraf2007 for the sweet words!

ZabuzasGirl: Goodness! So demanding ;) Well, here's the update. Hope you enjoyed! xoxo

klandgraf: Seems your intuition was proven correct, missy! The King is a bit of a dick, but understandably so considering who Aurora is. He'll come around in the future chapters. You're so sweet! Maybe one day I'll publish these things. I'm trying to have a few of my short stories published, but I won't get word back until March whether they were approved or not. Sooo we'll see! I hope you like this chapter xoxo


	19. The Killer

Chapter 19  
"The Killer"

Basins crackled with open flames licking from their sides, and a few servants lingered about the space, arranging the contents, sweeping at the floor, or merely standing along the edges should their service be required. Aurora held her own suspicions as to their omnipresence considering Haemon's warning two days ago. She had never before left Apulia. She had never known that even in an ally's home one must be on guard and be wary of those who linger about you—particularly servants. She shot one of the women a suspicious glance, thinking, _Yes, what a tale you'll share with your master: "The princess spent the afternoon pacing about her room." _ She nearly smiled to imagine King Deidus' face as he dissected those few words in his meticulous way and arranged them into something sinister since every moment she spent within the palace was analogous to an insult to the king. Like many things, she was beginning to realize the breadth of her ignorance on political matters. She had known that Apulia and Samnium shared a history of tumultuous and irregular competition, but she had not understood the severity of the rift between them. Should this future war turn in their favors, she could mend that broken bond into a powerful alliance benefiting her people. She almost startled herself with this manner of thinking. These were the meditations of a queen, not an orphaned and exiled princess.

She bowed her head, sealing her eyes closed, and forced herself to dismiss the errant thoughts. She needed to focus on the matter at hand. Whatever passed now would affect the course of their actions and her future indefinitely.

At last the heavy doors to her borrowed chambers parted, and she held her breath superstitiously until he passed through the threshold. Unthinking, she hurried toward him and offered a chaste smile as greeting. In the two days since his return, their lines had been drawn. They alone were friends. He was the sole person she trusted, and she looked upon him as such, welcoming his return with genuine relief and happiness to see him. He hid the limp well. She noticed only because she searched for the minute signs he was hurt, but she had tended to his wound every morning and night and any moment in between. There was a certain pride and duty attached to this role. As if a proper wife, she cared for him, and she was the lone person allowed to do so. In a way, it was empowering, knowing that he depended on her and needed her for something. He wasn't omnipotent.

Haemon didn't return her look. His features were heavy and guarded, and Aurora couldn't hold her tongue as she blurted out, "What did he say?" She feared the worst, and his look seemed to affirm it.

Rather than answering her, the Alban Prince considered the few servants gathered within their quarters. "Leave us," he commanded sharply, and the servants made their separate exits as swiftly and quietly as they could. He watched the last one leave the room before he turned to face Aurora again.

Too much time had passed, and too little had been spoken. Her hands were trembling subtly as she searched every flicker of his features for a sign as to what had passed within the meeting. Had Deidus said no? What were they to do now? A deluge of fresh worries swept through her and threatened to break her resolve. She hung on his word, on his response, and he was dangling the possibility before her like a slice of meat to a dog.

His chestnut eyes settled on her as if reluctant to consider her, and he exhaled shortly before saying, "Yes."

Her head cocked over one shoulder. Her eyes sharpened distrustfully, and Haemon interpreted her suspicions.

"He said yes," he explained more fully, and Aurora's shoulders fell but with relief. "He will fight with us."

Her chin lifted, her face turned to the ceiling like she could peer through to the heavens, and she wished to thank every god and goddess in the Pantheon for this reward. When she looked to him again, she was pitifully fighting a smile. The relief tumbled out of her lips, and she muttered in awe, "We did it. We survived."

Haemon didn't share in her mirth. In fact, a crease interrupted his brows, and his regard was teeming with untold information.

That one look sent her stomach tumbling to her feet, but her smile was the more delayed in receding. She watched him as though reluctant to recognize his look for what it was. It foretold a worse offense..

"What is it? What's happened?" she asked before she had the good sense to shut her mouth and overlook any ill news. Was there another threat unforeseen? Had the King agreed but on impossible circumstances?

"There has been news from Apulia."

"What? What news?"

She had never seen Haemon hesitate. Never. He bowed his head briefly, seeming to gather his words, and she immediately regretted her question. She didn't want to know, but simultaneously she knew whatever it was would have to be confronted.

"You should sit," he said and glanced toward a stool near them. Aurora didn't move.

"No," she said and considered him more sternly.

"Aurora—"

"Tell me." Her eyes darted back and forth to consider each of his. "Please. Tell me." The silence. The waiting. She couldn't take that. Let it be swift as an arrow into her breast.

Again, Haemon hesitated looking at her like a messenger delivering an ill omen.

She couldn't breathe, and her eyes beseeched him all the more.

"Atlan is to be executed."

Time halted around her. The words snaked through her head, numbing her like venom, and she could only stare. She could only read the sincerity and finality in Haemon's face. He might as well have been the axe to Atlan's head.

"He can't be."

The words tumbled out of her mouth, short and rushed. Haemon frowned.

"He can't."

Her voice was shaking and crackling with the emotion slowly consuming her like water rushing up around her feet and rising to drown her. She couldn't breathe. He reached for her, and she reacted all at once. She stumbled away from him, removing her arm from his reach, and speared him with her gaze now furious where it had been stupefied.

"He can't!"

Haemon looked at her with such omniscient pity. She wanted to gut him.

"No," she snapped through her teeth.

Atlan had cared for her as a father. He had saved her, healed her, and protected her. She knew one day she would burn his body on the pyre, but not now. This was too soon. Visions of that night assaulted her like shadows blurring her sight, and she pushed through them stumbling toward the door. Too many had died for her. She had loved and cried for too many corpses. Never again.

Haemon stepped in her path, and she thrust her palms into his chest, growling, "Move! I have to go to him! I have to help him!"

She tried to push past him, but he was a wall in her path. Would that she had Herakles' strength to tear him down, she would smile while doing it.

"I must go!"

He looked more severe than ever but unlike she had before seen, less a killer than an orphan like her. That look was a sword to her throat.

There was a sharp crack. She blinked, heaved her breath, and registered his face turned across one shoulder. On his cheeks against the tan skin a red handprint disappeared into his dark beard.

Slowly he turned to look at her again, but there was no anger, only pity turning his dark eyes to bottomless pools.

She didn't want his remorse. She punched his chest and screamed, "How can you!"

He didn't move.

She funneled all her weight forward, hitting him with every ounce of strength she had. "How can you stop me!"

He took a step back with his injured leg and winced, but it was more an effect of her words digging into his chest. He had been forced to stand aside while he watched his father die. Now he was forcing her to do the same.

She hit him again, but her strength was waning. Her elbows collapsed, and she fell forward with the momentum of her attack until her face collided with his robes. His arms wrapped about her, and she was caught in the trap of his embrace. She fought poorly, elbows jutting out and squirming against him. The fight was turning like the tide as she was faced with her impotence. She couldn't save Atlan any more than she could have saved her family, and she was furious and exhausted and heartbroken.

His chin dipped to follow her so that he folded around her, bending until his mouth was near her ear, and he answered in too barren and honest a tone, "There's nothing you can do."

"No!" Her fist beat his chest, but it did nothing. It drummed inside her, hitting that note, betraying her weakness… Haemon had tricked her into thinking she was strong. He made her believe she could fight back and save what little she had. But she was Lycaon's lost, forgotten orphan. She had nothing else.

He held her tighter when she surrendered to his grip, losing the will to hold herself up, and she abandoned to body-wracking sobs. One after another after another like waves on a sea. She heaved in the interim. His shirt was stained with her tears, and every renewed cry twisted the blade in his chest. He'd promised to protect her, but he couldn't shield her from death. And he understood too well. Knowing that gut wrenching hopelessness and knowing he was powerless to alleviate it. He felt the ground should open up and swallow him, but life was not so kind. Her knees gave out so that he was the only thing holding her up, and he held her like she was breaking in his arms. The edge of the bed was near them, and he guided her to it. Her body swung over her limp toes without caring that it was drawn off balance, and the whole of her weight funneled against him. He adjusted his grip on her and eased her back with him as he leaned to rest against the edge of the bed and slide down to the floor. His leg flared with a burst of fiery pain, but he sealed his lips so that not even the slightest groan escaped them when both their weights were added to his wound. The sutures might have torn. It was of no concern to him. His body bent, he found the floor, his back rested against the bed frame, and she was curled up between his legs and his chest sobbing relentlessly.

He rested his chin on her head, folding her within his embrace as if he could cover every piece of her, but it had no effect. His gaze lost its focus. Her sobs hammered into his head. They mingled with his memory, and every cry was echoed by his mother's.

_Her pale blue gown crackled in the torrent wind, its shade reflecting and matching the clear skies overhead, as if the heavens had reached down and swallowed her. The sun was at its peak. Apollo stood watching. Aside from the wind, no son or daughter of Troy dared to breathe._

_Her arms were spread, her palms gripping the stone ledge, and Myrina nearly stretched past the edge as if she might tumble over. Her body jerked. The spear was driven into Hector's shoulder. She swayed. He collapsed. All the air was hollowed from her body, and she caved in on herself at an angle that was painful to his eyes. Her grip faltered, and she stumbled and fell against the ledge. Slowly her body twisted like a planet spinning from its orbit, clipped from the gravity that held it in place, and her face was revealed to the royal party sitting silent and watching in their seats like her response was only the final act to a tragic play. Haemon's feet were nailed to the ground, but he wanted to reach for her. His mother's eyes searched desperately into the thin air. Her shaking hands covered her mouth. She howled like a wounded animal, and the hairs pricked to life across Haemon's body. The tears rolled down her cheeks. Helen was the first to step for her and offer her embrace, but Myrina struck at her and pushed her away with such vehemence that the woman stumbled back, shocked and insulted. A slender red abrasion from Myrina's ring interrupted the Spartan Queen's otherwise perfect features._

_Aeneas pushed past the woman and knelt at Myrina's side. She hit him as well, almost looking fearful of his help like it might confirm the truth, but Aeneas was not so weak as Helen. He wrapped himself around her to still her sobbing, and she fought against him blindly, writhing and twisting and turning like a red hot iron had been placed to her breast and she couldn't still under the pain._

_He took a step. Then another. Time was too slow, and his whole focus was on his mother collapsing like the world shattered from around them. This was the end. He was sure of it. The sky would fall. The ground would tear open. Everything would crumble away. Troy's most beloved son, her protector, her defender had died, but he couldn't believe it. His father was invincible. No one could harm him._

_Haemon placed his hands on the edge of the ledge where his mother had stood and at last allowed his gaze to stretch past her and to the rolling plains surrounding Troy. There, nearest the wall, heavy footfalls had trampled away the grass until there was only a halo of sand and dirt and rocky pebbles. He squinted against the sun and saw the black steeds tied to an empty chariot. A warrior with matte black armor strode toward the chariot and plucked out a pile of rope. His blonde hair was cropped about his shoulders. His skin was tan in the afternoon light. Nothing unusual separated him from the men Haemon had seen his father face before, but when the warrior moved, it was fluid and effortless with such skill and precision that Haemon knew before he followed the warrior's advance to a crumpled mass in the sand, looking almost like a rock among the landscape for it was so unmoving and large. _

_The bronze plating glinted in the sunlight. Helmetless, his chestnut curls quivered in the breeze._

_The warrior advanced closer, and before Haemon could stop himself, he yelled out, "Father!" to warn him._

_Hector didn't move, and the warrior was almost upon him._

"_Father! Get up!"_

_The warrior squatted near Hector and took his feet, wrenching them away from his body, to wrap the rope about his ankles. Hector didn't reach for his sword. He didn't take the warrior by his throat. His body was limp and heavy, reminding Haemon of one of Iliana's dolls, and his stomach twisted tightly around the ice cold sensation growing inside him._

_The warrior towed the rest of the rope back to his chariot where he tied the ends to the base. Haemon felt sick, but he couldn't look away._

_All at once, a grip on the back of his robes almost tore him from his feet, and he spun numbly to see Aeneas glowering at him. His handsome features were so full of hate and fury that he was grotesque, and Haemon paled and tore against Aeneas' hold. _

_The demi-god didn't release him and commanded, "Look at me."_

_Haemon shuddered and pushed at Aeneas' wrist and fought like a trapped, wild animal because it was all he knew to do. Aeneas didn't release him, and he swore the grip on him tightened. He stopped when he knew he was caught and stared at Aeneas with his slender body heaving under his harsh breaths._

"_Haemon!" the Dardanian cried out angrily, but Haemon looked across the ledge where the warrior had assumed his chariot, circled near the walls, and taken off for the Greek camps. _

_He rode away with his trophy, Troy's last stand against the Greeks, and Haemon's youth, for in the dirt, torn and shredded by the rocks and sand, Hector's corpse dragged behind him._

His head hung heavy atop her own. Hours had passed, or perhaps it had only been minutes. He couldn't be sure, but at last, her body had stilled and her cries had quieted. She lay limp against him, and he stared vacantly at her hand knotted up in the front of his shirt and gripping tightly even in sleep.

"You can't save him," he told her, "anymore than I could have saved Hector."

She didn't respond, but he wasn't sure she was even conscious of him.

He slid his arm beneath her knees, his other supported her back, and he pushed against the frame for the strength to stand. His leg was pulsing dull pains, but it awoke with a fresh sear as he forced it to respond and lift them both. The sensation bladed through him. He groaned shortly through his teeth, but he stood even if he staggered with her in his arms and turned to lay her on the bed. He unraveled her fingers from his shirt, pausing briefly to hold her palm for he felt guilty leaving it empty and alone, and he undressed her and finally himself. He slid into the bed beside her and drew the covers across them. He sheltered her in his arms though she was numb and oblivious to him, and he held her, watching the afternoon die to night and the fires flame away to ashes.

He kept watch until her hand circled his, squeezed tightly, and relieved him of the burden.

‡‡‡

She stumbled awkwardly in the hallway, fighting for a moment to gain her bearings and her equilibrium, for the news still broke fresh and undeterred upon her. Iliana rested briefly against the wall and bowed her head in thought, but not a moment later, she shook off the idea and hurried forward again. A servant darted from her path. Another bowed as she passed. She didn't register these minute details and focused solely on the door which she soon forced open and stepped inside.

Heated voices assaulted her, but she didn't stand aside. Instead she rushed forward and found that she was not the only one to seek an audience with the king.

"He tried to kill her, and you release him!" Ascanius growled angrily at their father seated behind his table, an elbow propped upon the top, and his forehead in his hand.

Nereus turned and looked to Iliana with disapproval lining his brow. "Little sister, what are you doing? This is no time to speak."

Her chestnut eyes flamed in a sudden burst of fury and spun from Nereus to Ascanius who had turned as well to face her. "You three have spoken enough for me. I have a tongue, and I will use it!"

Ascanius' eyes widened in surprise to hear his little sister speak so harshly, but she gave none of them the opportunity to rebuke her.

"You know nothing of what he tried to do to me! You were in Apulia. You were not there to witness what passed, and you have no right to spread lies about me!"

"Iliana," he gasped in bewilderment, but he was fast getting his feet back under him. She could see it, and she couldn't allow it.

She strode fearlessly toward them. "I'm here to speak with Father—alone."

Both brothers looked to their father as if to expect him to speak some sort of sense that would calm their sister, but Aeneas had lifted his head to expose the weary indented lines on his face and waved the empty hand that had once supported his forehead.

"Leave us," he prompted.

Neither brother moved.

"Go on," the king grumbled. "She's my daughter, and I've had enough of your complaints for one day!"

Reluctantly, the two retreated, not sparing potent looks at each other and the pair lingering behind. They would no doubt wait by the door to see what they could hear through the wood.

In the interim, father and daughter stared at one another, Aeneas exhausted and Iliana livid.

"Well," he began as soon as his sons had gone, "you have my ear."

"It's true then... You've released Damian."

"Yes."

Iliana pounced forward until her palms landed on the table, and she bent toward her father. "Why?"

She behaved as if she suspected foul play, and Aeneas exhaled slowly, remembering how Damian too had misunderstood his intentions. Evidently he had convinced everyone—even himself for a while—that he was a man to be feared.

"It is a symbol," he answered. "We are not Greek. We do not kill the innocent."

"The innocent," she repeated and frowned densely. "You believe that he was not to be blamed?"

The King's face shivered with his private thoughts, but when he replied, he was calm and even, "He's paid for the damage he did to you. That is enough."

Iliana's chestnut eyes nipped for something more and darted back and forth to survey Aeneas' face. Voice tainted with surprise, she confessed, "I don't understand."

Aeneas stood, ignoring the cracks of old bones and flares of pain when his muscles gripped too tightly, and wandered toward the window. "I'm the king. I don't need to explain my motivations to anyone."

Witless and subdued from her prepared fury, Iliana numbly followed after him and wrung her hands before her. She was too superstitious almost to speak the words allowed, but she couldn't contain the thought to herself. "You did it for me."

Aeneas paused and stared across the square where he could monitor his people's daily work. He made no move to respond, and his silence was an answer in itself.

Abruptly her eyes pricked, and she wound her fingers about his as if to force him to acknowledge her. He bowed his head, glanced over his shoulder, and was caught by her raw look. "Thank you," she whispered through shaking lips. "I was so afraid… Afraid of what you would do to him. That you would punish him for my mistake and his heritage." She swallowed and gripped his hand tighter. "I was weak to forget your wisdom and your mercy. I'm sorry, Father. I've been—"

"Stop," he interrupted and looked more haggard for having heard her. "You don't need to apologize to me."

She dared a fleeting smile and rushed forward to embrace him with such earnest that Aeneas faltered for a moment before he held her. Exhaling, he rested his cheek against her hair and knew he had made the right decision, no matter if it haunted him still. She wasn't a child anymore. He needed to trust her instincts as she trusted him.

"What will you do now?" he wondered reluctantly. He had committed to this path the moment he cut Damian's binds, but he couldn't quell his reservations in one fell swoop. Unconsciously, he held Iliana tighter.

She was grateful for the shelter of his hold, so he wouldn't see how she shied by the implication. It was what she'd wanted—the opportunity to be courted by Damian and have a life beside him. It suddenly seemed so childish.

"Leave him be," she murmured but couldn't hide the disappointment from her tone. "It's the least I can do for the all the pain I've caused him."

Aeneas released her and held her by her shoulders in front him where she couldn't anticipate his severe frown. "The man was ready to die for you, Iliana," the king said sternly. "He deserves more than your sympathy."

Her chin bowed toward her chest, and she tried to twist from Aeneas' grip. He didn't let her slip away so easily, and she was forced to answer him. "How can I face him? How can I look into his eyes after this? I can barely look at myself…"

"You didn't fall into this alone," Aeneas countered. "He's guilty as you are."

She still would not meet her father's gaze and looked increasingly distressed and upset.

The king bent nearer and reminded her, "You've forgiven him. Do you not believe he will forgive you too?"

"I'm afraid I don't deserve his forgiveness," she confessed and managed to glimpse at her father. "I wish none of it had happened. I wish I had never gone to him that morning!"

"You can't change the past—no matter how you will it."

She braced herself with her hands on Aeneas' forearms for a fresh battle would need to waged, and she didn't know if she had the strength or will to face it.

‡‡‡

"You won't let it heal."

"I don't have the time to be wounded," Haemon countered through gritted teeth, fighting back every grimace of pain, as Aurora tended to the wound. He'd torn part of his sutures as he suspected, and she was now forced to cut them only to sew the ends together once more.

Her shoulders sank with aggravation at his stubbornness, but she continued her work, pausing briefly to push all her hair across one shoulder to clear her sights.

The interim was enough for Haemon to catch his breath. She leaned over once more, and he sucked in a short gust, held it tightly in his chest, and knotted his fingers in the sheet behind him. The wound was sore. It was bloody. It was healing poorly as she suggested, and staring at it, he was furious.

She glanced up at him from beneath her brow, and her mismatched eyes assessed his stature. Without warning, she sat back on her heels and decided, "Catch your breath."

"Get on with it!" he snapped impatiently like the growl of a wounded animal, but rather than rushing to work, Aurora stared straight into his face, matching his fury with the hollowness of her features. That look. He bowed his head and stared at the wound on his leg. It was a better sight, and he muttered, "I want to be done."

A moment later, she bent forward once more to continue her advance.

The silence settled around them, and though she was close enough he could brush his chin across her blonde hair, they were a sea apart since the news of Atlan's execution. She was cold to him. They'd broken through the walls between them, and now, fresh ground was laid to build up more. He'd only just gotten his hands around her and forced her out of her shell, and now he'd lost her again. For the first time in a long time, the Prince felt defeated, and he did not take it well.

"You're angry with me still," he grumbled and gripped the sheets tighter as she started on the final stretch of skin.

She pointedly said noting and was forced to extend the breadth of the sutures to reach fresh skin that would hold around the torn pieces.

He groaned shortly, his chest tightened like it could rip in half with the breath he held, and his face burned.

She finished the third loop, and he released it all, chest heaving to pile it back inside, while she calmly paused and untangled a snare in the thread.

Days ago, she'd nearly been sick tending to him. She handled it currently with such disconnect and tempered mood that she could have been dabbing ointment on a scrape. He should be proud to see such a change in her. A soldier needed a wife with nerves to match his own, but Haemon was only angry. He stared at her wheat blonde hair braided and twisted into two golden clips, a parting gift from Queen Raia who had become quite fond of Aurora during their time in Samnium, and he wanted to tear them out, wrap that blonde hair around his hand, throw her on the bed, make her remember what it felt like to need him…

"By the time we reach Alba Longa," he said through haggard breath, "you'll change your mind—_again_."

The words were sharp and venomous to remind her of the way their relationship swayed and pitched like a ship on a stormy sea. She looked at him, features more severe, and said, "Don't speak to me that way."

He sneered cruelly. "Is that a threat?"

"No." She huffed and sat back on her heels again, leaving her work unfinished, and he saw himself reaching for her. His fingers tore harder at the sheet.

"Finish it!"

"No!" she repeated, and her voice rose to match his own.

He growled in frustration, and his face contorted with such a heavy frown of surprise and confusion.

"I may mourn. You can't expect me to cry one night and smile the next morning. I'm livid!" she snapped, almost breathless with how she yelled it, and her eyes focused on him. "But not with you."

"It's an act, then?" he countered, quick to reach beyond and unleash the pent up anger boiling inside him. "You spend your days with the queen! You only come to me when you're weak or frightened and expect me to shield you!"

"That's not fair!" Her face was pale, but her cheeks flushed as she stumbled to her feet. "I can't be with you like this. I can't be the target of your guilt."

He lashed out and found her wrist while growling, "What does that mean?"

"Every time I look at you, I see the guilt in your eyes, and it makes me sick…" She inhaled uneasily, quivering almost in front of him, but she kept her attention pinned on him. "You feel responsible, but I never asked you to fight my battles."

Her tone calmed to something gentle and even, but it speared him through the chest, through the flesh and bone, straight into his heart. He stood up, ignoring how the pain tore up his leg, and roared, "What do you think husbands do!"

The silence was heavy and dense. Aurora trembled as he loomed over her, face alight with such red and blistering anger, but she stared up into his eyes, saw the pain peeling away the edges, and wanted to touch his brow and smooth back those lines.

"I will tear his eyes from his head and his tongue from his mouth," he groused low in his throat. "I will rip his limbs from his body and leave him on a field to rot!" His eyes, wild and untamed pierced her own, and he promised, "I will watch the crows eat his flesh, hear his cries, and I'll give him no mercy… And all will know in this life and the next. This is the price of hurting you."

Her breath shivered out of her lips. She wanted to tear her wrist from his grip, knowing what those hands could do in her name, and she desired none of it. But this had little to do with her. She could see that.

"Was that the fate of your father's killer?" she wondered softly. She plucked the raw nerve so effortlessly, but Haemon winced in a way she'd never seen.

"No," he answered and crumpled back until he was seated on the bed once more. He hissed with pain. Blood frothed and trickled from his wound.

Without hesitation, Aurora knelt before him, took up a piece of cloth, and cleaned away the blood. She turned it in her hands to a fresh side and placed it against the wound to help the blood congeal and slow. A moment later her lips nestled beside it, landing three times before she felt his hand in her hair, tugging to lean her head back so that she looked up at him.

"I'll give you redemption," he said.

"That's not redemption, Haemon… You talk of revenge."

"Sometimes, they are the same."

"You know they're not," she murmured, and he looked to the cloth bundled against his wound.

"It is better to have one than nothing," he told her.

She exhaled but could say nothing else. She drew away the cloth and murmured, "Let me finish it."

He released her, and she took up her needle once more. They would leave for Alba Longa in the morning.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Hi my lovelies! A shorter chapter unfortunately, but I've been busy as usual. I'm doing an editing job for a woman who is driving me mad, among other things, but in exciting news, one of my short stories is being published! :) Back to this story, though, much more to be done next chapter! Iliana and Damian will reunite!

Thank you to AmyLNelson and klandgraf2007 for the super sweet reviews!

Amy: Bienvenue encore, ma belle! J'imagine que tu t'amusait bien et que la France était tellement belle comme toujours mais je suis contente a te revoir! :) Damn English computers... I can never remember the alt codes for accents, so just imagine that they're there! How was it? Are you happy to be back? I cried like a three year old when I had to leave France :( Thank you for the review, and hopefully you enjoyed this update! xoxo

klandgraf: You're too sweet, gorgeous! Yes Aurora and Haemon's reunion was quite emotional for them, but clearly they have something kind of intense brewing between them :) I'm glad you like the father/daughter scenes with Aeneas and Iliana. They're some of my favorite ones to write because I see their dynamic so clearly in my head, and just the idea of Aeneas being a father and so docile and sweet is hilarious to me! YES! Aeneas the King! Initially I was going to have Haemon and Damian share that scene when Haemon returned, but I was like no. It would be Aeneas. It felt right :) Gah! Thanks, doll, and I hope you liked this chapter xoxo


	20. Dark Days

Chapter 20  
"Dark Days"

By midday the air was flush with the open sun and cool winds of the sea. The day called, and children found any excuse to shuck their chores and answer. Three boys chased a rogue chicken through the streets, its squawking and shivering wings fighting to be heard over the rustling of the square. All was movement and restless energy—all but the Alban Princess. Iliana held to her veil, grasping a handful of the thin material beneath her chin, hiding the bandage around her throat. Still, she could feel the eyes surrounding her full of pity and sadness, and any shroud dissolved. She felt naked, exposed, visible. Worse, their silent stares drained her of her courage. The blood pooled in her feet. Her heart fell deep in her chest. She glanced about, dizzy and vacant, seemingly oblivious to the forge in front of her and the door ripped from one hinge and hanging ajar. With every gust of wind, it swung absently. The mutilated helmet that had once kept it company was gone, and it seemed lifeless as it hung and creaked. There was no light inside, and bathed in the sun, Iliana didn't feel she have the strength to face the darkness again.

Yet, it called. Some unseen force tugged at her, and while she could not step forward, she couldn't turn away. Adjusting her fingers, the thin tendons and muscles were sore from gripping so tightly.

"You must," she whispered to herself.

She took a tentative step and then another until she reached the threshold, and her empty hand brushed the door. She drew a deep breath and pushed. The door yawned open, slow and irregular, and Iliana hadn't anticipated the disarray that would meet her. Straw, dirt, and ashes covered all; the stones of the fire pit had been torn away; broken spears and arrows scattered the ground; the table lay on its side in the center of the space. The forge had been sacked, and they had laid waste to the interior. It was a wonder it had not been burnt to the ground, though nothing more could be made of it—not a home or a haven. They'd left him nothing to return to, and Iliana was heartbroken, disgusted, and confused staring at the mess they'd left. The chaos was so distracting that she didn't notice the figure sitting aside.

Somehow he looked like an extension of the destruction, the way he bent over his knees, head in his hands. He seemed as unaware of her as she was of him, but as her focus centered on him, the air changed. His hands relaxed, he tilted his head back, and only his black eyes appeared and swirled blindly to find her. Their gazes caught, but there was no spark of excitement or anger or fear. It was mutual exhaustion. His hands fell away completely though he remained hunched across his knees.

"Why are you here?" he asked, that rough rasp of his voice making her shiver with recognition. It felt like years since she had heard his voice.

Her eyes lay open and wide, but her lips were sealed. What could she possibly say to him? Hundreds of words crowded up her throat into a heavy lump, and nothing could breach that wall of silence.

Exhaling, Damian winced as he eased back, and she glanced at the dirty bandage wrapped around his chest, her errant mind recalling the afternoon she had found him and tried to heal him. She gripped tighter to her veil until the tangled fingers were white and stiff as bone. They were both wounded now. The Spartan moved slowly, lax of the strength and vigor that Iliana had always admired in him, and he forced himself to his feet. He staggered briefly before finding his bearings, but though his body was weak, his intent was clear. He advanced toward her, stepping across the disarray, and she stood shaking and frozen in front of him. Grimacing, he pushed aside the table between them, and Iliana startled at the rough sound of it against the silence and the emptiness swallowing the forge. His black eyes speared her, and his shoulders fell in a way that was both weary and determined. He drew his full height, regaining that stature that had been imposing and daunting to her though he was thinner and paler than before. His dark eyes looked almost sunken and hollow in his face, but she couldn't look away from the intensity of his stare. He took another step toward her, and she flinched unthinkingly like a cornered doe as she recognized his proximity and how it unraveled her. Without hesitation, he reached out and took the edges of her veil, easing it back from her hair and toward her shoulders. She blinked and gazed terrified at him. Her hand clutched even tighter as if it were petrified and turned to stone, sensing his purpose.

"Let go," he commanded.

She shook her head, but her eyes were mesmerized by his. He tugged, and her hand numbly released its hold on her veil even as she wished to hold on, feeling the thin material slip out of her grasp. Her veil fell limply from her shoulders and down to the dirty floor. Damian found the edges of the bandage at her neck next, and Iliana's mouth opened with protest though no sound escaped. The lump felt thicker and heavier, and her eyes warmed and pulsed with all that she couldn't say. He patiently unraveled the knotting and began to unwind the bandage, removing at last the bunch of herbs that covered the wound. Iliana's lips shivered, and tears fell without sound. She wanted to beg him to stop, to ask him why he would do this to her, to scream. No one had seen the burn but the healer: Iliana had never felt more vulnerable. He cradled her jaw, angling her head back where he could see the ugly wound on her throat—the product of his hands—a sign of their bloodied relationship.

He exhaled all the air from his lungs, boring a hole through her as he stared it, and she could feel the tension crackling and building. She hadn't envisioned this. This was not how they were meant to rediscover one another, yet she felt powerless. She couldn't understand any of this.

"I thought of this moment every day," Damian said. "The moment when I lost everything."

Her eyes fell shamefully to the chaos surrounding them, knowing her role and her guilt in the matter.

"I knew there would be a price to pay for my lies, but I never thought…"

His words became too heavy to continue, and Iliana was grateful for the breath of silence. She didn't want this. She didn't need an apology. She only wanted the truth: the lies had cut her much deeper than a knife ever could. The words broke apart in her throat, and she heard herself ask the one question that haunted her still, "Did you ever love me?"

The Spartan behaved as if he were at the feet of Aphrodite in a temple, praying for redemption from a mute, cold statue, and he almost seemed unnerved that she answered. His breath quickened, and his gaze considered her face instead of the wound he had caused. "What?" he muttered, sounding confused.

Gathering her strength, she looked to him. "Was it all a lie? Did you mean any of it? Was it just some cruel joke?"

"No," he snapped, and his features twisted as though insulted. "I never lied to you—"

"Everything you said was a lie!" she accused and pushed away his hand from her face. "You held the truth from me! You made me believe that you were someone else."

"You saw what you wanted to see. I warned you."

Iliana stared him with chestnut eyes hard as stone, leaving her fury to radiate from her, as two weeks' worth of frustrations and fears and pains boiled over. "If I hadn't come to you that night, would you have married me? Would you have let me live beside you, thinking you were someone that you weren't? Would you have lied to our children and to their children after them?"

"No," he growled and turned away from her.

"Would you have died and left me mourning a man who never existed?"

"No!" he said sharply, spearing her with his dark eyes, but as he stared at her, his resolve faded. He looked away again, grumbling, "I don't know…"

It was what she had suspected, and yet her chest ached to hear him say it aloud. Her quick tongue fell flat with nothing else to enliven it.

His hands cupped his head briefly, seeming cradle a deeper ache, before he twisted to face her again. "I never asked for this! I never asked for you to come through that door!"

Iliana stared at him, no tears, completely drained. She faced the end with clear sight.

"And when you did," Damian continued while growing more determined and forceful with every word, "I tried—I tried to push you away, but I couldn't. Every time I looked at you I wanted to be better. I wanted to leave everything behind and be the man you thought I was."

She gritted her teeth and held perfectly still.

"What was I to do? What could I have said to you?" he continued. "I was trapped, and there was nothing that I could say to change what I had done." He exhaled, almost exhausted, and shook his head barrenly as if he had said all that he could. Standing before her, he opened his palms at his sides and said, "I can't change what I've done, but I've sworn to your father that I will be a different man. I'll earn your trust again if I have to die on the battlefield for it. I'll prove to you that I can be the man you need."

Iliana's brow folded in confusion, her mind wrapped up, even as Damian continued, but she couldn't process anything. "The battlefield?" she repeated.

He paused mid-sentence, as equally perplexed by her confusion. "Yes… We will go to war with Apulia, and I will march with the army."

"Why? You're not a sol—" Iliana stopped herself as she realized her mistake, and he said nothing. He had been a soldier of Sparta. Her mind raced endlessly in a thousand directions, and all she could muster was "This isn't your war."

"Alba Longa is my home," he answered evenly, "and Haemon was my prince. I want there to be justice for your family and our city."

Iliana shook her head unconsciously, unable to corral her thoughts or feelings at this news. She glanced him, thinner and paler than the robust blacksmith who had caught her eyes, and wondered bitterly, "You're hurt. Can you lift a sword to fight? How do you expect to get justice? You'll die if you step onto the field like this! How can you—"

Without warning, he grasped her face, and her words died in her throat the moment his lips molded to hers. Her body recognized him in ways her mind couldn't comprehend, and it almost sighed with relief for the forgiveness and comfort of his kiss. It was too fleeting when his forehead pressed against hers, his nose drawing along the side of her own, and she didn't realize he was smiling until she heard it in his voice, "I won't die."

She swallowed and pushed her face deeper toward his. "How can you know?"

"Because I will march to battle, and when I return, I will have you."

The hairs pricked to life down her spine, sending a subtle tremor through her, and her eyes burst open to meet his gaze and the sinuous smile beneath it. She rushed forward until her lips crashed into his. The truth had never tasted sweeter.

‡‡‡

The rolling plains gave way to flatter terrain as they neared the coast, and at the peak of the last hill, an endless sea of blue stretched out ahead of her. Aurora's breath caught in her throat, and her eyes darted back and forth to search the endless expanse so much vaster and brighter than she could have imagined. For the first time in her life, the Apulian princess faced the sea, and nestled just below them was an even more beautiful picture where large walls enclosed a small city—a picture of salvation.

"Alba Longa," Haemon breathed from her side, and she glanced at the prince whose normally stoic face was suddenly warm beneath the afternoon light. The cool sea breezes mussed his chestnut curls, and though he frowned to keep the sun out of his eyes, his air was lighter like a weight had been lifted. He looked like a wanderer who finally found his way home. Feeling her gaze, he turned to meet it, and Aurora was almost too mesmerized by the look of happiness in his eyes to remember her anger toward him. Haemon considered her briefly before he turned from her and flexed his heels into the horse's sides so that he descended the hill at the head of the pack; he'd found something more alluring than her to captivate him, and Aurora was left to look after him, a sole rider against the stretch of blue skimming the sky on the horizon. She inhaled deep into her belly and followed after him.

Alba Longa was not a large city, and as they drew closer, the small caravan passed pieces of old stone wedged into the ground in oddly symmetrical patterns. So the capital of Latium had been built upon ruins of an older civilization—perhaps one of the tribes that Haemon complained of so often—and it seemed appropriate for the survivors of a ruined city. Still, the evidence of war was written on Alba Longa's walls, a mixture of wood and stone built up higher than a horse could jump. One side was in the process of being rebuilt, clearly having been torn down by their enemies, and when they were near enough, Aurora could hear the hammering of tools and clink of metal as men went about mending the gash. They circled around the edge and toward the gates, open and waiting to accept the riders, and townspeople crowded around the entry for a glimpse of the impossible—the resurrected Crown Prince. Cheers broke out like a roar of happiness the moment Haemon was within sight, and Aurora hadn't expected them to be genuine. A city that loved its prince seemed too impossible to dream up. In return, a grin so broad and pleased graced Haemon's features unlike she had ever seen. For a first impression, Alba Longa was a meager sight, but it felt magical for the beautiful terrain, warmth of strangers, and kindness it brought out of the warrior prince.

Haemon dismounted his horse, and barely moments later a young woman burst forward and leapt into his arms. The prince hesitated briefly before he cradled her near him and laughed into her hair. Aurora frowned in both shock and frustration by such a public show of affection for a man who had always been so guarded and fierce to her eyes. Staring at them, though, she noticed their hair almost blended together with the same shade of chestnut, and she understood. This woman was not a lover but a sibling, and when at last Haemon released her, Aurora could see her features and was certain. The hand gripping her stomach eased, but she couldn't turn away.

"Brother," the young woman said and looked near tears, "you're safe."

"Yes," Haemon answered and squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, but soon he had to turn to embrace someone else—a man with pale blonde curls and handsome features undeterred even by age—_Aeneas_, Aurora mused.

She was so preoccupied watching Haemon interact with his family that she didn't notice one of the guards at her side until he cleared his throat and said, "My Lady." Startling subtly, she noticed the guard's hand extended to her, and she hastily allowed him to help her from her horse. Both feet were planted, yet she didn't feel any more grounded. There was a sense of surreal-ness, and Aurora couldn't find her bearings in this place. No matter how welcoming Alba Longa was, she was still a stranger inside its walls, and yet, it was now her home.

Another man, younger than Haemon stepped forward to greet the Crown Prince, while Aurora glanced about her and tried to ignore the peasants whispering now that their cries had died down. They listened and waited for some news to be announced. Ascanius was the last to approach Haemon, and both stared at each other in mutual surprise and elation before embracing.

"I'd thought Savas would have your head," Haemon confessed and patted his brother's tawny brown curls appreciatively.

"He tried," Ascanius answered and grinned, "but his riders weren't fast enough. And what of you? A few more days, and we might have burned an empty pyre in your honor."

"Disappointed to find I'm alive, brother?"

"No. Only curious as to what took you so long. You'd think you hiked across the mountains on foot," Ascanius said and shook his head with derision.

"Actually…" Haemon flexed his brow meaningfully, and Ascanius' jaw opened in surprise.

"And you did not make the journey alone," Aeneas intervened, making Haemon recall the woman he'd left standing alone and nervous behind him.

"No, I did not." He promptly turned to face her, his gaze tangling in her own and finding hers more molten and uneasy. Without hesitation, he offered out his hand. Aurora stared at it a moment, sensing the inherent meaning of this small gesture, and glanced at his eyes once more. His features were warm and relaxed, and she chewed her lip briefly as she gathered her courage in light of that look. Her hands grasped her hood first for she had worn it to protect her face from the sun, but now she drew it back and let it fall to her shoulders so that her golden hair flamed beneath the open sunlight. The peasants around them broke into whispers like busy insects buzzing about, and their clamor unnerved her. She never enjoyed public attention given her history and the dark rumors that followed her. But here, they knew nothing of her past. What did they think, then, when they saw her?

Haemon's hand still waited patiently between them, and Aurora took a quick breath before she grasped it and let him draw her closer to his family.

"I've returned to Alba Longa with a wife," Haemon said loud enough that they peasants around them wouldn't need to strain to hear him, and the Apulian princess held tighter to his hand. They weren't yet married, but now, after all that they had experienced together, it seemed like such an insignificant detail. "This is Aurora, daughter of Lycaon, heir to Apulia."

The crowd burst into cheers again so abruptly that Aurora flinched, and Haemon laughed, grinning at her like she were suddenly so amusing to his eyes. She was lost and confused looking back. Why this sudden change? Could Alba Longa really have such an effect on him?

"Princess," Aeneas said, voice bellowing to be heard over the crowd, and the peasants quieted down to hear what their king would say, "we welcome you to Alba Longa, your home if you will take it."

"My Lord," she answered immediately and released Haemon's hand to bow to the Alban King, answering to the ground. "It is an honor to meet you at last, and I am only gracious that you will accept me into your lands—given what has passed." She glanced up hopefully and realized Aeneas was grinning, his sons and daughters as well, seeming entertained by Aurora whose features paled to think she had misspoken.

Aeneas stepped forward and took Aurora's hand, coaxing her to stand and face him, and the handsome king leaned in to whisper confidentially, "We are not so formal in Alba Longa."

She smiled nervously, but as she gazed into the king's pale blue eyes, so warm and calming like the sea that she had glimpsed for the first time this day, her agitation eased.

"The gods have smiled on my family to watch over your journey and return my two sons to me, and they have blessed Haemon to give him such a fair wife." She blushed unconsciously, and Aeneas chuckled to himself. "Come. You must meet your new family."

With that, he turned and opened her to the three siblings lingering nearby. Ascanius smiled and nodded his head in greeting. "Princess… I'm happy to meet you again and on better terms, I hope."

"Of course," Aurora said. "I'm glad you returned safely, and I apologize—"

"There's no need," he interrupted. "Even wise men cannot predict when evil will strike. None of us could have been prepared for what happened… Fortunately, the gods are in our favor. They protected us, and now they will support us when we march against Savas."

"We will not march alone," Haemon added.

"Later," Aeneas interrupted. "I've only just had my sons returned to me. I'd like the afternoon at least before I have to consider letting them go again."

It was then that the young woman stepped forward, smiling so brightly that it seemed she had borrowed Apollo's light and shone from the inside out. "I'm Iliana," she introduced, "and I'm glad you've come. I've been waiting for the day Haemon would find his match, and I never…" She laughed to herself and glanced at her older brother with a silent joke shared between them before turning to Aurora again. "I never thought you would be blonde! Welcome." She took Aurora into her arms without another word, and the Apulian princess was stiff as Iliana was warm. Her arms remained fixed at her sides, and her face was unmoving in surprise at such a familiar gesture. Iliana released her a moment later, still smiling at her private joke, and Aurora tentatively returned the look.

At last, a slender, tall man awaited his turn, and though he boasted a head full of chestnut curls to match his siblings, his blue eyes were flecked with green and deep and vast like she could peer into them endlessly.

"This is Nereus," Iliana said through her sustained laughing.

Nereus had a more serious, stern air about him than his brothers or sister, but he did not seem sinister, only calculated and calm in that respect. Aurora was grateful that he spoke first, "Princess, welcome to Alba Longa. It is fortunate that you escaped and have found your way to our city—even under these circumstances. There is a spare room in my home where you can stay until the marriage is arranged. It may be some time since we are preoccupied with war, but my wife could keep you company and help you adjust to our ways, if you would like."

Aurora stared at him, mouth ajar, knowing that she should say something and yet so taken off guard by his offer that she couldn't choose how to react.

"She'll stay in my home," Haemon decided in her place.

Nereus looked to his older brother with a slight wrinkling to his brows. "Brother, are you not still unwed?"

"I didn't bring her across the forests and the mountains to leave my side."

"Nereus is right," Aeneas interjected. "It is custom for the woman and man to be separated before marriage. We shouldn't anger the gods."

"By your words, the gods are the ones who protected us and watched over our journey here. I think they approve," Haemon countered, both fierce and annoyed in the sharp way that she recognized better than his kindness. No one spoke up against him, though he looked from Nereus to Aeneas and repeated, "She'll stay in my home."

‡‡‡

Night was upon them in hours, and day's light gave way to torches and candles and a huge bonfire built up in the center of the city square. Boughs adorned tables, dyed cloth wrapped about the trees, and lanterns swayed in the breeze where they hung from the branches. A troupe of musicians played songs that were foreign to her ears with tales from a far away land. Roasted meats and vegetables overflowed from bronze platters, fresh fruit lay in piles on the table, and vessels of wine were drunk and forgotten until they too formed a heap at the edge of the celebration. In hours, the Albans and their king had managed this feast to welcome the Crown Prince and celebrate his upcoming nuptials to the Apulian woman, who was consistently impressed by the townspeople's respect for the royal family and the unusual air that surrounded Alba Longa. She sat at the head of the largest table beside Haemon and across from his sister Iliana.

She pretended not to overhear when the Alban princess leaned over to Ascanius' wife, a pretty tawny woman, and whispered loudly, "She's beautiful, isn't she?"

The woman didn't reply and looked rather sullen, in Aurora's eyes, while she nursed a cup of wine.

Haemon squeezed Aurora's thigh unconsciously as he was in the midst of a conversation with his brothers and father concerning the upcoming battle, and Aurora found a much more interesting conversation to catch her attention.

"Deidus and his army will march along the Northern Road through the mountains and to the High Pass, while we march from the west. Savas' forces will be divided between fighting Deidus or us. We'll have the advantage," Haemon explained.

"If we're to do this," Nereus said, "we'll need Ariston. We'll need as many men as we can rally to join us."

"And weapons," Haemon agreed and turned his cup in his hand.

"That has been taken care of," Aeneas said, but both Nereus and Ascanius were silent in a way that spoke volumes.

"What?" the eldest prince prodded. "Have we the weapons or not?"

"Yes," Ascanius answered stiffly, "but at a cost."

"We won't speak of this," Aeneas warned sharply.

"What? What are you keeping from me?"

"Ask our sister," Ascanius answered sharply.

"You won't disobey my will," Aeneas snapped. "You've grown too arrogant and blood thirsty to trust the wisdom of your father. It was my decision. It will be respected so long as I breathe and my memory lives after me!"

"Aurora," a voice whispered, and the princess was delayed in her response, her attention divided between the tense conversation and the voice calling to her. At last, she turned to see Iliana bent across the table and looking cross to have been ignored for so long.

"Yes?" the Apulian asked.

Iliana smiled, a brief glimpse of that sunlight she could command, and said, "I want to show you something. Will you walk with me?"

Aurora opened her mouth to respond, but there was nothing to answer. She looked uncomfortably at Haemon who was still staring at Ascanius and Nereus to understand what their father had meant, and she didn't know if she should ask permission to leave his side. She'd never been at a banquet to celebrate their upcoming nuptials like this, and being that she was a stranger in Alba Longa, she didn't know the proper protocol.

"Haemon can bear to part from you a moment, I think," Iliana said loud enough that her older brother heard.

In turn, the crown prince glanced toward them, his features tense and his eyes distant, but he said nothing. He tilted his head, removed his hand from Aurora's thigh, and looked back to his brothers and father.

Aurora was left to stare at his profile with a mixture of surprise and frustration. He'd not given his permission—he'd dismissed her! She bristled briefly and answered Iliana, "I would like that very much."

Again, the Alban princess smiled, but it lacked the luster of earlier. Both stood without a word and took up a path away from the celebration. Aurora didn't even bother to see if Haemon looked after… She knew he wouldn't.

"I'm so happy to meet you," Iliana began, tangling her fingers in front of her and looking at Aurora hopefully. "I meant what I said before—when we met. I've always wondered who Haemon would wed. You're so different from anyone I've ever met…. But I am sorry for the tension between our lands and for the way you've been exiled from your home. It's an awful burden to bear."

"It is," the princess agreed in a neutral tone, at once guarded and distracted. She gazed off ahead of them rather than addressing Iliana directly.

"It is…" Iliana searched for the proper word and wrinkled her brow in thought. "…_interesting_ that you should find my family under these circumstances. We understand better than you might think."

"Troy," Aurora anticipated. Realizing she'd conquered the topic rather inelegantly, she glanced at Iliana with guilty eyes. "Haemon spoke of it."

This left Iliana to gaze ahead, and her brow relaxed. She shook her head subtly almost in dumb surprise. "He trusts you."

"I doubt it's trust," Aurora confessed and cringed inwardly at her sudden confidentiality. "Survival brings out unexpected sides of a person," she decided more diplomatically.

"He barely speaks of Troy with us. In fact, none of us speak of it," Iliana commented and then grinned mischievously at Aurora. "He likes you."

The princess looked away, poorly hiding the way she frowned and rolled her eyes at the comment. It was too ironic and ill-placed to even be humorous.

Iliana caught on immediately and grasped Aurora's elbow to still her and force her to face her. "I know that my brother can be difficult at times. When it comes to war or battle, he's like a dog with a bone." Aurora looked put off by the analogy, but Iliana laughed. "He is so consumed by the details and plans that everything else can fall away, but you should know that it's not his fault for being like this. When we were young, he took care of us." Her chestnut eyes searched Aurora's features, so warm and pulsing with love and admiration that the sensation was almost infectious. "He's a good man. In time, you'll come to see it too, and maybe one day he'll bury the bone and pay attention to what's around him…" The Alban princess seemed to understand the poor end to her analogy, echoed in Aurora's perplexed frown, and without warning, both laughed.

Iliana looped her arm through Aurora's and tugged enthusiastically. "Come… You must see this!"

A table away, Ascanius smiled after the two women and looked to Haemon who had receded from the revelry to a pensive, brooding mood—overwhelmed by the upcoming battle. "Your betrothed is already charming our family," he commented.

Haemon's eyes pricked to life subtly and focused on Ascanius who turned his head to direct Haemon's attention toward Aurora and Iliana walking away from the square arm-in-arm. His attention lingered watching the blonde smile candidly at Iliana, and then he began swirling his cup of wine while he let himself consider some private thought.

"She's different than the woman we met in Apulia," Ascanius continued. "She'll make a decent wife."

Haemon grunted under his breath and took a long sip of wine.

"You disagree? I thought you didn't bring her across the forests and mountains to leave your side," he taunted.

He said nothing still, making Ascanius frown dubiously.

"What have you done?"

Haemon look at him, confused and insulted at once. "What?"

His brother quirked his brows. "The gods blessed you with strategy, not charm, brother."

"I don't know what you're saying," he grumbled.

"I'm saying," Ascanius spelled out arrogantly for he knew he was correct and for once in a position of power against his older brother, "that war with Apulia has not made you so short-tempered. So, what have you done?"

Haemon exhaled hotly like a cornered animal, assessing Ascanius from beneath his wrinkled brow, and at last he set aside his wine and confused, "She's angry with me." He glanced toward his left where Aurora and Iliana were gone from his sight. "While in Samnium, there was word from Apulia. Savas captured and planned to execute Atlan."

"The huntsman?"

"He was the man who found Aurora in the forest after her family's murder. He's been a father to her since that day…"

"You weren't the one who condemned him. Savas is trying to bury his lies. He has to cut the loose ends."

"And there was nothing I could do about it." Haemon shook his head slightly before it hung between his shoulders. When he inhaled next, he looked up again and added, "All I could think of…"

"This has nothing to do with him." Ascanius bent forward to speak where none would hear him. "You can't save everyone."

"I know," Haemon growled shortly, seeming aggravated with that mortal limitation.

"She's a woman—prone to emotion, irrational at times."

The crown prince snorted in derision and took another sip of his wine. "What can I do about it?"

"Remind her that she's not alone," Ascanius advised and checked to be sure no one else heard his candid response. "After all, it's what husbands do. Better to realize it now."

_Is that not what I've done since I took her from Apulia! _his mind hissed, but Haemon could say nothing more. In one attempt, he finished the last of his wine, stood, and strode toward his home. He was in no mood for revelry or company.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hi my lovelies! Long time, no update? I do apologize for the extreme delay. Those of you who know me know that I'm usually as timely as I can be. Between panic attacks, graduate applications, editing jobs, and the looming termination of my lease, I was a hot mess. Fortunately those days are behind me, and I have returned my attention to writing! Thanks for your patience. Only three more chapters remain, including an action-packed finale!

Thanks to AmyLNelson, klandgraf2007, and Guest for the super sweet reviews!

Amy: You visited France, and you liked Disneyland the best?! Blasphemy! haha Oh well, I'm just happy you had a good time. I'm going to be doing an internship in Brussels this coming year, so hopefully I'll get a chance to take a train over to France or even your neck of the woods! I'm really happy you enjoyed the brief flashback with Myrina :) It was good to write about her again, and I hope you're still enjoying the relationships. There will be a fun chapter between Haemon and Aurora next :D Thank you again for the congrats. I went to the launch party recently and had to read an excerpt (my legs were shaking so badly, I thought I'd collapse haha) and then found out I won a writing contest the next day which was surreal haha I hope you're doing well, Miss Amy! xoxo

klandgraf: Thank you love! I hope this wasn't a disappointment, and that you enjoyed it! :D

Guest: Awww I wish you had left me some way to contact you. I would have been able to shoot you a PM in the last couple of months when I was making myself sick with nerves-literally-and told how sweet it was to receive this review in my inbox! I was not intentionally staying away, but I have been beyond busy these last couple of months and almost driving myself insane with stress. Ironically writing happens to be a great stress reliever for me, but I was too exhausted and scatterbrained to actually sit down and write something coherent! Regardless, I appreciate your support and kind words and hope you find this reply so that you know how much your review meant to me. Thank you, and I hope you'll continue to read and figure out how it all ends :D xoxo


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